


Corruption of Blood

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Series: Heroine Without Honor [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dawnguard, Dawnguard DLC, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 111,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: When a seemingly straightforward Thieves Guild job takes Ronan Sorleigh into Skyrim, he finds himself caught up in a far-reaching conspiracy that has dire consequences not only for Skyrim, but for all of Tamriel. With a mysterious vampire at his side, Ronan must race to thwart the insidious plot... and confront his own dark family legacy.Loosely follows the Dawnguard questline. Takes place afterThe Bear and the Wolf.





	1. The Lost Man's Reprieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm not working myself to death in retail this summer (for once), I actually have time to write/repost fanfiction — and now that I've finished the two preceding one-shots, _[Gray and Rain and Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957087)_ and _[The Stalhrim Job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163970)_ , I can finally get to the other big multi-chapter fic I've written for _Skyrim_. Thankfully, it's shorter than _[The Bear and the Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2301317)_ (and it definitely needs less work), but it'll still take some time to tweak and repost (but hopefully not too much time).
> 
> So, in the meantime: sit back, relax, and enjoy!

Rain thudded down on the inn’s roof, keeping up a dull, constant hammering that was slightly muffled by the straw thatching it. Once or twice, Aegir found himself glancing up from the bar to scan the ceiling for any leaks trickling from the floor above; the Lost Man’s Reprieve had only been rebuilt a month ago, and he was still worried about the structural integrity.

 _Still, a roof over your head is better than nothing,_ he reminded himself with a grim chuckle, leaning over the counter to survey the main floor. _Better than some lean-to shelters in the ruins of a ghost town,_ that’s _for certain._

His weary eyes roved around the long, low-ceilinged room, scanning tonight’s patrons. Some off-duty guards were playing dice over at a table by the fire, and a few townspeople talked quietly over a pint or two of mead nearby. Some, he’d worked with on the construction taking place the past few months, others he’d more recently become acquainted with, both as neighbors and friends — he knew everyone in his inn.

Everyone except one.

The only lone figure was a tall man in blue mage’s robes — _likely an elf,_ Aegir thought, his eyes narrowing — sitting at a corner table, leafing through a book. A hood obscured his face, but the light from the hearth caught the yellow tint of his fingers as they traced over the pages.

 _Altmer._ Aegir stiffened, all of his da’s tales about the Great War and all of his own memories from the Civil War coming back to him: recounting golden armor and weapons flashing in the Cyrodilic sun, remembering black robes and the crackling of magic. _One of the Thalmor? A spy?_

He shook his head, trying to dispel his unease. _No, it can’t be. No Thalmor would dare set foot into Skyrim... not now._ Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t turn his back for fear of what the mysterious stranger _might_ do.

The door opened, the full sound of the downpour outside distracting Aegir from the Altmer. He turned his head just in time to see a young man wrapped in a soaking-wet fur cloak and hood close the door behind him, shutting out the rain again.

Pushing back the hood from his face, the young man ran a hand through his damp, unkempt dusty-brown hair, sighing. He shrugged the cumbersome cloak off his shoulders, revealing a knapsack against his back and faded, well-worn dark leathers.

“You can put it over by the fire,” Aegir called, gesturing towards the hearth.

The young man glanced over at him, smiling slightly. “Many thanks.” Pulling an empty chair closer to the fire, he draped the sodden garment over the back of the chair. Some of the soldiers gambling nearby looked over at the cloak and its owner for a brief moment, and then returned their attention to their game.

“You know,” the young man said, sitting down on a stool at the bar, “I bought that cloak because I was expecting it to be _snowing_ in Skyrim — not raining.”

Aegir laughed, the sound dispelling his earlier suspicion and fear. “You have to expect _any_ kind of weather in these parts, lad. Just be glad we’re not up further north.”

“Oh, I am. It’s plenty cold enough for me right here.” The young man propped up his elbows on the counter. “Got any Cyrodilic brandy?”

“I’m sure I have a bottle or two around somewhere.” Crouching down briefly to search his stock, Aegir found a bottle gathering dust on the bottom shelf and stood up, plunking it down in front of his customer. “You have the coin, traveler?”

Nodding, the young man fished out his coin purse and counted out the septims, pushing the pile across the counter before taking the brandy.

Curious, Aegir observed the man across from him as he drank. He was a Breton in his mid-to-late twenties, with keen olive eyes, a crooked nose, and a square jaw covered in razor stubble. His leathers were like none the publican had seen before: myriads of straps and buckles, protective shoulder and knee pads, pouches and pockets. A steel dagger and sword hung from his belt alongside a small yet bulging leather satchel.

Only one thing was certain: this man was not the average traveler.

“Looking to rent a room for the night, traveler?” Aegir asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Yes.” The young man took another sip of brandy. “I’ve been on the road from Markarth since this morning; it’ll be nice to get some rest.”

Pulling out a ledger, a quill, and a pot of ink from under the counter, Aegir started a new entry. “Name?”

“Roseign. Loran Roseign.” He pulled his gloves off and laid them on the counter, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “Put me down for one night.”

“Sure thing.” Aegir made the necessary notations and pushed the ledger off to the side. “Where are you from?”

“High Rock.” Loran smiled. “And as you can tell, I’m not a very experienced traveler.”

Aegir laughed. “You’ve gotten out of the country; that’s more than what most people accomplish in their lifetime.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Loran agreed, taking another sip of the brandy. “Being able to go to new places and experience new things is a blessing.”

“Ever been to Skyrim before, then?” Taking out the rag from the belt of his apron, Aegir began to wipe down the counter.

“No, this’ll be my first time here.” Loran took a break from drinking to turn over his gloves to allow them to dry a little more. “I must confess that I actually have no idea where I am, but it’s a good thing that I got here before the storm got worse.”

“About a month or two ago, you wouldn’t have found much lodging here,” Aegir told him grimly. “This is Helgen.”

“ _Helgen_?” Loran leaned forward, his eyes alight with curiosity. “The town that was burned down by that dragon?”

“The very same.” Aegir started working on rubbing away a very persistent stain on the wood. “It lay in disrepair for quite some time, but the High King and Queen ordered Helgen to be rebuilt maybe six months ago; as you’ve probably seen, we’re still working.” He shrugged. “But the inn’s up and running, and that’s what I care about.”

“Did you see them? The High King and Queen?” Loran asked curiously.

Aegir smiled to himself. _Another royalty-loving Breton... what else is new?_ “Not the High Queen, but Ulfric Stormcloak himself came to the laying of the first cornerstone.”

“That must have been quite the event,” Loran remarked. “Still, it’s a shame that you weren’t able to see the Dragonborn herself. Songs about her exploits are sung even in the courts of Daggerfall, you know.” He laughed. “The bards are full to bursting with praise for her, and they all but exploded with joy when they heard that she’d given birth.”

“Imagine the whole of Skyrim doing that, and you’ll have our reaction to the new prince,” Aegir chuckled, tucking his cleaning rag away. “After so many years of misery, this land deserves some happiness —” His voice trailed off as he looked up, his eyes unconsciously going to the corner table.

The Altmer there was no longer reading his book, but rather watching the two of them.

“What is it?” Loran asked, finishing off the last of his drink.

Tearing his eyes away, Aegir turned back to his customer. “I wouldn’t look now, but the elf at the table over there is watching us.” _Watching_ you, _perhaps?_

Despite the warning, Loran turned his head to look before facing Aegir again. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I was supposed to meet him here.” He stood up, grabbing his gloves and leaving the empty bottle on the counter. “Thank you again for the drink.”

Aegir nodded, trying to keep from frowning as Loran made his way over the corner table. Unlike the Altmer, Loran didn’t seem that suspicious, but something about their interaction just didn’t sit right with him.

Trying to shake his unease off, he turned back to the bar as the muffled pounding of rain and the muted rumbling of thunder sounded over the roof.

 

Ronan quietly sighed, slipping his still-damp gloves into one of the pouches on his bandolier as he walked. He wasn’t a particularly good liar, and he never had been fond of lying to others anyway; thankfully, the innkeeper didn’t seem to suspect anything.

The Altmer glanced up with a coolly disinterested look as he sat down at the corner table. “You are Ronan Sorleigh, I presume?” he asked in a low, crisp voice.

“I am.” Ronan leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “And you are?”

“Valmir. I am a scholar from Firsthold.” He shook Ronan’s hand. “Your Guildmaster, Jolaine Marat, spoke quite highly of you, you know.”

Ronan smiled slightly. “I _am_ Mistress Marat’s protégée, after all; a teacher praising their student is only natural.”

“Not like she did.” Valmir closed his book, placing it by his goblet of wine. “When I approached her with this contract and told her I needed the best thief she knew for the job, she immediately volunteered you.”

“Then I’m flattered that you took her advice,” Ronan said honestly. “So, what’s this ‘job’ that you speak of, Valmir?”

Valmir glanced around the Lost Man’s Reprieve to make sure no one was listening in before continuing. “First of all, Mister Sorleigh, you must understand that I do not need anything ‘stolen,’ per say... rather _recovered_. If I had a choice, I would have done this by myself, because time is of the essence; however, given the circumstances, I felt it prudent to have some specialized backup.”

“I understand.” _That_ time, his words weren’t exactly true. “Please, continue.”

“I am a scholar of ancient religions,” Valmir said, lacing his fingers together, “and for the last decade, I have been writing my masterpiece: a comprehensive volume on the Dragon Cult. It is nearly finished now, but there is one last thing that I wish to address: Forelhost.”

Ronan frowned. “Forelhost? What’s that?”

“It is an ancient fortress in the mountains of the Rift, dating back to the first era or even earlier, and it was there that the remaining members of the Dragon Cult made their last stand against the army of High King Harald.” Valmir’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “The history hidden within those walls... ah, it is almost too great to comprehend.”

“So if this is just an archeological expedition, what do you need me for?”

Once again, Valmir did a quick check for eavesdroppers before continuing in an even lower voice than before. “I believe that within the ruins of Forelhost, there lies the body of one of the Cult’s rulers: a Dragon Priest, Rahgot by name. In addition to exploring Forelhost itself to provide insight on the Cult’s strongholds and way of life, I wish to retrieve Rahgot’s mask and staff — the emblems of his power — in order to study the magic that they hold.”

“And this is where I come in,” Ronan finished.

Valmir nodded. “Precisely. Due to my mastery of the arcane arts, I am quite capable of defending myself, but as I wish to avoid whatever traps and pitfalls are lying in store, I realized that I would need someone with a light step and quick fingers.”

“Why contact the High Rock Guild, though?” Ronan mused, crossing his arms. “I’m sure that Alinor has a Guild chapter, and I know that Skyrim’s is based nearby in Riften; either would be logical choices.”

A muscle ticked in Valmir’s jaw. “If you really must know, Alinor’s Guild was wiped out long ago, and if I approached the Skyrim Guild, I would most certainly be risking my neck. Nords are not known for their tolerance towards elves.” He glared in the direction of the innkeeper to make his point, then turned back to Ronan. “Guildmaster Marat, on the other hand, has long been a friend of mine, and I have always trusted her with matters such as this that require considerable discretion.

“I need not tell you that this is one of those matters. I have guarded my research jealously from more cutthroat scholars than I for a decade, and I will not treat this expedition any differently. It must be kept secret at all costs.”

Ronan nodded. “Of course. When do you wish to leave?”

“First thing in the morning.” Valmir stood, tucking his book under his arm. “Forelhost is a day and a half from here, at the very least, and I would like to get there as soon as possible. I hope you have a horse, because that is the only way we are going to get there in a timely manner.”

“I do. I will be ready tomorrow morning.” Ronan stood up as well, tilting his head slightly. “I look forward to working with you, Valmir.”

Valmir smiled, but it did not quite reach his eyes. “As do I, Mister Sorleigh. As do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Valmir arrive at Forelhost... a bit too late.


	2. One Step Ahead

> _My love,_
> 
> _Wor **d** s cann **o** t express how sorry I am that I had to keep my most rece **n** t assignment fr **o** m you, and of course, you were comple **t** ely righ **t** when you said that I shouldn’t have, and I should have told you from the sta **r** t. Yo **u** may not believe me, but I **s** wear **t** hat my actions were **v** ery necess **a** ry: for the Gui **l** d, yes, but also for us._
> 
> _When you return from Skyri **m** , I w **i** ll be waiting fo **r** you **.** I p **r** omise I will be ready to make things right between **u** s. Until the **n** , my heart will be filled with longing for you **.**_
> 
> _Always yours,_
> 
> _Jo_

“What are you reading?” Valmir craned his head over: not an easy feat while on horseback.

“Just my map.” Folding the letter, Ronan quickly tucked it back into one of the pouches on his bandolier; his personal life was nothing to concern his employer with. “Are you absolutely sure we’re going the right way?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Valmir answered testily, wrapping his own fur cloak a little bit tighter around him. “I sent some of my personal guards to scout out the area; one of them returned a week ago to mark out the route on my map. And should you happen to get lost, just remember that Nordic barrows can be spotted from miles away.”

Ronan was going to correct Valmir’s condescending “you” to “we,” but he decided to save his breath. They’d been following a winding, barely-beaten path up the side of a snow-covered, craggy mountain for what seemed like hours with nothing to show for it, and even with his cloak and gloves (fortunately dry now), the wind was biting through to his skin and chilling him to the bone. He tried not to think about the hot stew he’d had at the Vilemyr Inn last night, but that was becoming increasingly more difficult with every step his horse took.

 _Just focus on something else, Ronan,_ he told himself firmly. _Occupy your mind elsewhere._ “I must confess, I’ve never undertaken an expedition into a barrow before,” he managed. “What sorts of... _complications_ can I expect?”

Thankfully, Valmir was more than happy to expound. “Ancient structures often run the risk of structural compromises, but many barrows are discovered mostly intact. However, there are still plenty of traps to worry about, not to mention draugr.”

Ronan frowned. “‘Draugr’?”

“The undead, Mister Sorleigh. Nord legend holds that they were cursed with undeath for serving the dragons, but scholarly investigation has proven that to be fraudulently false. Have you ever by chance read Bernadette Bantien’s fascinating study _Amongst the Draugr_?” Without waiting for an answer, Valmir plowed on. “It would seem that in ancient days, the dragon priests who were buried in these barrows killed, reanimated, and then sealed their followers into the barrow with them. These cultists, now draugr, periodically awaken in order to worship the priests and transfer their own energy to them to maintain the undeath of their leader. It’s quite intriguing.”

Ronan shuddered, but it wasn’t entirely out of the cold.

“Oh, you need not fear, Mister Sorleigh,” Valmir dismissed flippantly. “Draugr may look fearsome, but they’re not very intelligent. With any luck, the guards that I sent to scope out Forelhost will have cleared it of at least half of the draugr in there.”

“That would make this dragon priest easier to kill, correct?” Ronan asked. “If the draugr that lend him their life force are dead, then this Rahgot should be weakened quite a bit.”

“Yes, yes, something like that.” Valmir brought his horse to a halt and pointed up ahead. “Look there, Mister Sorleigh. Do you see that?”

Ronan squinted through the translucent veil of swirling snow. Up the path, beyond a lone pine tree, a stone tower loomed, nearly blending into the mountain that it stood beside.

“We’re here.” Valmir dismounted, leading his horse over to the tree and tying the reins around the trunk. “We’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot; there’s no way for horses to get up.”

Ronan nodded and followed his employer’s lead. Adjusting his cloak and tugging the hood further over his face, he trudged up the mountainside. As he drew closer, he could make out more of the tower, including a stone bridge that jutted out from the side.

“In here.” Valmir gestured to a doorway in the base of the tower.

Ronan ducked inside. There was a narrow set of stairs leading up to a landing and he ascended after the scholar, being careful not to slip.

Valmir paused at the landing. “This is likely the only way up to Forelhost – well, the only established way, anyhow.” The excited gleam was back in his eyes again. “Any invaders would have to come up through here one at a time, and they would most certainly have been shot by the cultists from those battlements over there.” He pointed to somewhere beyond the doorway. “A most ingenious defense mechanism, even for a relatively primitive people.”

Ronan peered out, his breath catching in his throat. The bridge that he’d seen earlier continued their path towards high stone walls covered with snow: ancient, crumbling, but by some miracle, still standing.

Valmir sighed almost wistfully. “I wish your father could have been here. He would have jumped at the chance to go on this expedition.”

Slowly, Ronan tore his gaze from Forelhost’s battlements to stare at the scholar in confusion. “Pardon?”

“Your father was well-known by my colleagues for his interest in ancient ruins: Nordic, Dwemer, Ayleid,” Valmir explained. “Not exactly a _scholarly_ interest, mind you, but he had a similar skill set to yours and was in very high demand for this kind of work. He and I worked together on many expeditions before –”

Ronan shook his head. “I – I think you must be mistaken,” he managed. “I never knew my parents; I grew up in an orphanage.”

Valmir’s brow furrowed. “But – I – you look just like –” He huffed. “Oh, never mind. Let’s move on.” He inched through the doorway, turning up a steep wooden ramp.

Gingerly, Ronan followed him up the ramp and over the bridge, being sure to watch his footing. The two of them reached the end in no time and started off towards the walls. As they drew closer to the imposing ruins, Ronan felt as though he was shrinking, while the already-massive battlements seemed to grow larger and larger.

He followed the scholar into a courtyard of sorts; here, the wind was much less intense, but snow still coated the ground. Sparse, scraggly vegetation grew at the base of the walls, as well as a few scattered pine trees. There were a few small tents pitched near the center, forming a sort of circle around a dead campfire.

Ronan stopped in his tracks. “Where are your guards?”

“Probably inside, clearing the entrance.” Valmir’s answer was swift and assured, but his eyes betrayed his worry. “I will see what the men outside can tell us.” His steps a little quicker than before, he strode towards the tents.

Ronan resolved to wait at the edge of the courtyard. As soon as Valmir vanished among the cluster of tents, he retrieved the letter from his bandolier pouch, smoothed it out, and then read it again. It wasn’t unusual for Jo to send him little encouraging letters during his longer jobs, but this one was anything but that.

_Stranger still that this is the first I’ve heard from her since —_

Snowflakes dotted the parchment, bleeding through the neat script on the page. Ronan made to shield the letter with his free hand, but then he paused. The ink of some of the wet letters was bleeding more than others.

 _A hidden message?_ Mouth dry, Ronan scanned the letter yet again, stringing together the bolded, blurring letters into:

**_do not trust valmir. run._ **

Inhaling suddenly, Ronan glanced up. Valmir was still not visible.

Ronan tucked the letter away again, a little more hastily, and kept scanning the courtyard, looking for where Valmir — _why should I not trust him, Jo? Why should I run? Could you not have told me that?_ — might have gone. His gaze went up to the battlements, to a strange structure on top of the fortifications ahead: a small, curved wall with ornate carvings around the top, flanked with two weather-beaten pillars.

Suddenly, a shadowy shape flitted out from the strange wall.

Startled, Ronan blinked, but it was gone as soon as it had come.

There was a shout from the tents, and his head snapped back around to see Valmir running back towards him. “They’re dead!” he shouted.

Ronan almost took a step back, but he stood his ground. “What?” he yelled back.

“Didn’t you hear me? My guards are –” Valmir stiffened abruptly and then suddenly collapsed face-first into the snow, the straight shaft of an arrow protruding from his back.

The scholar’s muffled cries of agony echoing in his ears, Ronan dove for a nearby pile of rubble, sliding behind the fallen stones. Drawing his bow from his back, he peered around his hiding place, his heart pounding.

There was a flicker of movement from above, and the shadowy figure lightly leapt down from the battlements, stowing its own bow and drawing a long, thin blade. As it approached the gravely injured Valmir, Ronan noticed that there was a large, cloth-covered bundle on its back.

Valmir tried to struggle to his knees, facing the figure. “You – you will not get away with this!” he croaked, trying to summon destruction magic in one hand. The spell fizzled out abruptly and he collapsed again.

“No, _you_ won’t get away with this.” Ronan gave a start at the low, hoarse, but distinctly feminine voice of the figure. “I don’t know what the Dominion’s game is, but rest assured, I’m going to put an end to whatever you’re planning.” She stopped, the scholar’s body resting almost by her feet. “But for starters, I’ll put an end to you.”

Raising her blade, she stabbed Valmir with one precise move, and he went limp. Kneeling by him, the woman removed her sword, wiping it off on the snow.

Ducking back behind the rubble, Ronan struggled to keep his breathing steady. He’d failed before he’d even begun. His employer may or may not have been trustworthy, but the fact remained that Valmir was dead, that whoever this woman was most likely had the artifacts they were looking for, and that he would probably be dead soon enough as well.

“You there.” The woman’s voice rang out, startling him again. “Come out now, and don’t try anything stupid.”

Hesitating for a moment, Ronan put away his bow and slowly stood up, his hands raised.

The woman stood in front of him, her sword still unsheathed and gleaming in the light of the rising moon. Now that he could see her a little more clearly, he could see that she wore leathers like his, only hers had been dyed black and the buckles on it looked like silver. A heavy bearskin cloak shielded her from the elements, and a hood covered her face.

“You don’t look as though you’re with the Dominion,” she mused. “But appearances can be deceiving...”

“The _Aldmeri_ Dominion?” Ronan repeated, dumbfounded. He glanced down at Valmir’s body. _I was hired by an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion. Jo must have known, but —_

“Yes, the Aldmeri Dominion,” she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. “What other ‘Dominion’ would I be referring to?”

“I – I’m not with the Dominion,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I was just hired by him, that’s all. My name is Ronan Sorleigh and I’m with the High Rock Thieves Guild –”

“ _What_ did you say your name was?” she interrupted.

“Ronan Sorleigh,” he repeated, a little fearfully. _Another person who thinks they know me?_

The woman was silent for a moment, as if mulling over the information. Then: “It’s good to meet a fellow thief.” Mercifully, she sheathed her sword, but she did not approach any closer. “I am a Senior Operative with the Skyrim Thieves Guild.”

Ronan could barely hide his relief. “I – it’s good to meet you, too.” _Even if under somewhat strained circumstances..._ “But why are you up here anyway?”

Another pause. “It would probably be best if you heard this from the Guildmaster himself. If you come with me, I can lead you back to Riften – and maybe you can tell us just what you were doing as well.” Her tone was factual, but Ronan could not mistake the veiled threat underlying it.

 _If I don’t go, it’ll probably turn out badly for me... she may claim to be a thief, but she kills like an assassin._ “Very well,” he said, swallowing his fear. “I’ll come with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood_ : Ronan (and a few familiar faces) return to Riften.


	3. Welcome Home

Ronan stared at the street ahead of him. It was narrow, with squat wooden houses on one side and manors with high porches and shingled roofs on the other. Grass and weeds poked up through the cobblestones, and the smell of fish and dampness was everywhere, even more so with the light drizzle coming from the night sky. There were a few guards in Riften’s purple livery on patrol, but other than them, no one else was out on the street.

 _Riften._ His shoulders slumped. The city was a far cry from the splendor of Daggerfall; he almost found it hard to believe that there was a thriving Guild hidden in the depths of this rat-hole.

_A rat-hole that I never thought I’d return to..._

“Thinking about something?”

Startled by the voice, Ronan turned his head. It was the Senior Operative, standing beside him with her hood still shrouding her face. Now that she was closer, he observed that she was almost as tall as him, but slighter in form. _Probably not a Nord... a Breton like me or an Imperial, perhaps?_

“It _—_ it’s just been a while since I was back here,” he said finally.

“Here last on business?” Her voice was sharp.

Ronan shook his head. “No. I _—_ I grew up here. In Honorhall Orphanage.” _A little-known plane of Oblivion..._

A pause. “No wonder you’re so eager to come back.” There was some softness behind her sarcasm. “Just stay close to me and keep your hood up. Grelod’s been dead for a while, but we’ll steer clear all the same.”

“Really?” Ronan almost smiled, unable to disguise his relief. “How?”

“Dark Brotherhood contract put out by one of the orphans.” The Senior Operative began to walk down the street, her fur cloak rustling in her wake. “I think we can both agree she had it coming.”

Ronan nodded, following her over one of the many bridges spanning the canal and heading towards the center of town. In the midst of a few scattered shops, the inn, and the smithy, a low stone wall encircled the marketplace with its rickety stalls and old well. At this hour, no one was around here either, but he knew as well as any Riften native that the market was overflowing with people at the height of the day, making it a prime target for pickpockets and other thieves.

_“Stop, thief!”_

_Gasping aloud, the scrawny boy whirled around and ran in the opposite direction from the produce stall, clutching his stolen apple to his chest. Looking back for an instant, he saw the two guards running after him, hands on their swords._

_He felt a strange sort of desperation _—_ not necessarily about being thrown in jail or cut down on the street, but about them catching him and sending him back to the orphanage. No one, not even the other orphans, knew he was outside Honorhall, and Grelod would beat him for sure if she caught him sneaking out again. _

_Just as he was about to check behind him again, he ran into something solid and sprawled back onto the cobblestones. His hard-won apple fell, rolling from his hands, and he scrabbled for it desperately._

_A swift hand snatched up the apple, and another hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. It was then that he realized that he didn’t run into something, but some_ one: _a woman wearing buckled brown leathers, with flaming red hair pulled back in a thick braid._

_He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a whisper. “Just go along with what I say.” Crouching down, she wiped some of the grime off of his face. “Gervais, what have I told you about playing in the marketplace?” she scolded loudly._

_Behind him, the guards stopped, apparently as dumbfounded as he was. “Ma’am, is this your son?” one of them asked sternly._

_“Oh, no,” the woman said, giving the guards a dazzling smile. “He’s my sister’s boy; I’m watching him for the afternoon. Why do you ask?”_

_“He stole an apple, ma’am. You know what the punishment for thieves is.” The guard’s tone was even more ominous than before. “He’ll have to come up to the Keep with us.”_

_“Nonsense! I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding; my Gervais just forgot to pay for it.” The woman flipped a small pouch of septims to the still-shocked guards. “Would you be so kind as to give that to the stall owner?”_

_After a moment, the guard who caught the septims nodded. “Very well. But keep an eye on that child, ma’am... or else.” With that, he and his comrade turned away, heading back towards their posts._

_Her dark eyes sparkling with her smile, the woman now addressed him. “Nocturnal was not favoring you today, little one.”_

_“I ain’t little,” he protested. “I’m fourteen. I’m just small for my age.”_

_“In my line of work, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Her smile faded as she scrutinized his face. “What’s your name?”_

_“Ronan. Jus’ Ronan. I live in Honorhall, so I got no family.” He scowled._

_The woman continued to look at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed. “How — how long have you lived there?” she asked. There was a note to her voice that sounded like worry, but he didn’t trust it._

_“All my life. I dunno who my parents were.” He grabbed the apple from her; she made no move to stop him. “I don’t wanna live there. I hate it.”_

_Something in her eyes softened. “Would you rather become someone like me?”_

_Looking at her armor, it suddenly struck him what she was. “You’re a —”_

_“Shhh.” The thief put a finger to his lips. “Yes, I am, and I think you can be, too. I can train you and make you one of us; I just need to ask my Guildmaster first.” She paused, her gaze a little more resolute. “Would you like that, Ronan?”_

_Images flashed through his mind: him in his own set of Guild leathers, flitting about Riften at nighttime like a ghost, stealing gold and jewels from mansions and palaces, becoming the richest man and the most legendary thief ever._

_But the first image was him leaving Honorhall for good._

_“Yes!”_

“Ronan.” The Senior Operative had stopped in front of him, her arms crossed and her tone warning. “Keep following me.”

Ronan shook himself out of his memory. “Yes, of course,” he said and resumed walking.

But as they skirted the wall and crossed another bridge to a set of stairs leading down into the canal streets, he couldn’t help but look back at the market, as if hoping that the woman from his memories would be standing there.

She was right about him wanting to be a thief. But he’d never seen her again after that day.

 

After stumbling through the sewers of Riften ( _the Ratway,_ he reminded himself; he’d heard plenty of horror stories about it as a child) after the Senior Operative, Ronan found himself standing at the edge of a dark, circular chamber with a low ceiling supported by stone arches, the space itself housing a cistern filled with dark, stagnant water. The lighting here wasn’t much better than it had been in the Ratway; the only illumination came from a few scattered braziers and the round skylight over the water. Across the way, he could see a wooden dock, supported with wooden beams and rigged up with ropes to keep it afloat, extending into the cistern, as well as walkways that connected it and the stone floor and, beside one of these, the small hanging sign that advertised the bar known as the Ragged Flagon.

Ronan struggled not to wrinkle his nose, more out of the smell than the shabby appearance. “Is this the Guild’s headquarters?”

The Senior Operative only shrugged in response. “I suppose you could call the Flagon that – or _part_ of it, at least.” She strode off around the edge of the cistern and towards one of the walkways. “Come on. And keep your hood up.”

Ronan hesitantly followed her, glancing around as he did so. The bouncer, a burly Nord man clad in leather armor with dirty blonde muttonchops, scowled at them as they approached, but grudgingly stood aside for the Senior Operative. The Breton continued to feel the man’s suspicious eyes on him even after he passed.

The Ragged Flagon itself held a few other tables and chairs scattered about the stone floor, as well as some out on the dock over the cistern waters. A single chandelier hung from the sloping ceiling, casting shadows on the stacks of barrels and crates that bordered the bar. He was surprised to see a few other thieves in the bar: a sallow, pale Imperial woman and a paunchy Breton man with a yellow goatee playing cards at a table littered with mead bottles and papers, along with a rangy Redguard woman with thick black hair twisted back into a bun drinking at the bar. The barkeep, a wiry Nord man with a thin mustache, swept up some dirt in a distant corner.

Approaching the table of thieves, the Senior Operative cleared her throat. “Who’s winning, Vex: you or Del?”

“I am, for now,” the Imperial answered, with a disdainful glance across the table. “Thankfully, Delvin’s a horrible cheater.”

Her opponent tutted at her. “You wound me, luv. Either way, you know I’ll win in the end _—_ an’ you’ll have to keep your end o’ the bet.”

Vex scowled. “Shut up, Delvin, and play your card.”

Chortling to himself, Delvin took a card out of his hand and placed it down on the stack between them before turning to the Senior Operative. “So, what brings you back ‘round these parts, Guildmaster? Business or pleasure?”

Ronan gaped. _She’s the Guildmaster of the Skyrim Thieves Guild?_

“Brynjolf’s the Guildmaster now, Del, not me,” the Senior Operative corrected flatly. “I gave him the title when I got married.”

“I may have the title, but you’re still wielding the influence and calling all the shots, lass.” A broad-shouldered, red-haired Nord man stepped out of the shadows shrouding the doorway by the bar. “Not that I’m complaining; gives me less paperwork.”

“Bryn!” There was a smile in her voice as the Senior Operative turned around to give the thief a hug. “How have you been?”

“Right as rain, lass, but better now that you’re here.” Brynjolf pulled out a stool and sat on it, leaning back against the bar. “How’s Ulfric?”

“He’s well enough. Busy, but then again, so am I. And before you ask,” the Senior Operative said, “Yusef’s not here, but he is similarly doing well.”

“I’m not worried about Yusef,” Brynjolf said, but his eyes told a different story. “Even between rebuilding Windhelm and watching your back, he’s got enough time on his hands to send me letters.” He leaned back against the bar. “How about the babe?”

“Torgnyr is... oh, he’s wonderful.” There was an obvious fondness in her voice. “He’s going to look just like his father when he grows up.”

Brynjolf laughed, but his good humor faded as his gaze shifted to Ronan. “Who’s this?”

“You know who he is, Bryn,” the Senior Operative said quietly.

Ronan swallowed. _So they_ were _looking for me... but why?_

Brynjolf scrutinized him for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then: “Lass, you’ve got some explaining to do. How did _—_?”

“Not here, Bryn,” she hissed, shooting a glance at a suddenly-curious Vex and Delvin. “Come with me. You too,” she added, glancing at Ronan.

Trying to suppress his unease, Ronan followed the two thieves into a narrow corridor off the main bar, and then into a small, nearly bare room: a table with two chairs, two beds pushed back against the stone wall, a shelf filled with ledgers. Brynjolf sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for Ronan to sit as well; the Senior Operative opted to lean against the wall, her unseen eyes boring into him.

“What’s going on?” Ronan asked suddenly, his eyes darting to the woman. _As if she would give me any answers..._

“You can take off your hood now, Ronan,” she said, ignoring his question.

Sighing, Ronan pushed his hood back from his face, squinting in the dim room.

Brynjolf inhaled sharply. “Bloody Oblivion. He _does_ look like _—_ ”

“One thing at a time, Bryn,” the Senior Operative interrupted. “Karliah should be back from Raven Rock soon enough; we can ask him about _that_ then.”

“Ask me about _what_?” Ronan snapped. “Who are you two and what do you want with me?”

Brynjolf chewed his lip for a moment before responding. “The name’s Brynjolf. I’m the Guildmaster of the Skyrim Thieves Guild.” He glanced towards the Senior Operative. “Care to introduce yourself, lass?”

After a moment, the woman removed her own hood. Ronan was surprised to see that she _was_ a Nord, albeit one with the high cheekbones more characteristic of a Breton. Her umber hair was pulled back in several small braids, and three jagged scars ran down her cheek.

“Kajsa Stormcloak: Dragonborn and High Queen of Skyrim. I’d add my other titles, but they’re not really necessary.” Dark brown eyes bored into him. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you were doing with a Thalmor agent?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood_ : Kajsa and Brynjolf discover what Ronan was doing in Forelhost, Brynjolf and Ronan discover what Kajsa was doing in Forelhost, and Ronan discovers what Kajsa and Brynjolf want with him.


	4. Handling the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: since I've finally finished editing all of the remaining chapters, this fic will be on a much more frequent reposting schedule! New chapters will continue to be posted on Fridays, but I will also be posting on Tuesdays.

“I’m not with the Thalmor!” Ronan protested. “He just hired me —!”

Kajsa cut him off. “Who’s ‘he,’ exactly? Do you know his name?”

“Valmir. He said he was a scholar from Firsthold who studied ancient religions,” Ronan answered quickly, scrabbling through his memories. “He said he was in Skyrim because he was writing a book on the Dragon Cult —”

Kajsa sighed irritably. “Why does it _always_ have to be the Dragon Cult?” she muttered, almost to herself. “What is it about them that makes reasonable people foolish enough to seek them out?”

“Lass,” Brynjolf said warningly, “perhaps you should let the lad tell his story before you start peppering him with questions.”

Scowling, Kajsa crossed her arms and waited.

Brynjolf turned to Ronan. “Go on, lad. We’re listening.”

Swallowing, Ronan began. “I was told to meet Valmir at the Lost Man’s Reprieve in Helgen, so I left Daggerfall, crossed the border into the Reach, and traveled southeast to meet him there. He told me that he was a scholar of ancient religions and that he was in Skyrim to gather material to finish his book on the Dragon Cult. He wanted to go to Forelhost, which he said was the last bastion of the Cult in Skyrim, in order to conduct an archaeological expedition. And —” he hesitated for a moment “— he wanted me to help retrieve the mask and staff of the Dragon Priest hidden within.”

Brynjolf whistled. “Those must be worth a fortune. There’s a huge market for looted antiquities, especially from Nordic barrows; I can only imagine the price they’d fetch.”

“Who’s interrupting now, Bryn?” Kajsa remarked wryly before turning to Ronan. “Keep talking.”

Ronan nodded quickly, not wanting to annoy her any further. “It took us about a day and a half to get to Forelhost. When we got there, the guards that Valmir had sent ahead were slaughtered... and then you killed Valmir,” he finished, glancing uneasily at her. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but I it looks like you got the mask and staff as well.”

“Perceptive, I see.” Slinging the large, cloth-covered bundle off her back and placing it on one of the beds, Kajsa undid the wrappings with a triumphant smirk, revealing a strange mask carved out of orichalcum and a golden staff shaped like a striking serpent. “Your employer’s guards didn’t even get _close_ to Rahgot.”

“Did you kill them too?” Ronan asked, trying not to sound accusing. “The guards in the tents by the entrance?”

“Yes,” she said simply, wrapping up the artifacts again. “However, the draugr, not I, took care of the ones inside. Made it that much easier — relatively speaking.”

Ronan frowned. “But why were you even at Forelhost in the first place?”

“The lad raises a good point, lass,” Brynjolf said. “I’d like to know why the High Queen of Skyrim is running around ancient Nord tombs in her old Guild leathers like she used to before she got married and had a kid of her own.”

Kajsa shot him a glare before directing her attention at Ronan. “Listen, I believe your story; I’ve dealt with enough liars in my life to know when someone’s being dishonest. But that doesn’t mean that I trust you enough to tell you about —”

“Oh, so you don’t trust me either, lass?” Brynjolf interjected. “And I thought that _you_ said that we’d give the lad the benefit of the doubt when we found him!”

“Bryn, the High Rock Guild cannot be trusted anymore!” Kajsa hissed. “Guildmaster Marat has admitted to collaborating with the Thalmor and —”

“Jolaine?” The familiar name slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Both of them glanced over at him in astonishment, but Kajsa spoke first. “You know her well?”

Ronan nodded. “Yes. She’s the one who recommended me for this assignment —” He stopped abruptly, remembering Valmir’s words: _Guildmaster Mara_ _t_ _has long been a friend of mine_ _, and_ _I have always trusted her with matters_ _such as this_ _that require considerable discretion_ _._

And then he remembered something more.

_“Jo?”_

_She gave a violent start, nearly knocking over the inkwell onto the papers she had been gathering up as she whirled around, but all the fear went out of her when she saw it was he. “Oh, Ronan, it’s you! You scared me!” She clasped one hand to her heart and laughed._

_After a moment, Ronan laughed with her. “Sorry about that, Jo. Are you all right?”_

_“Ah... yes. Yes, I am.” She smiled, but it seemed strangely tense. “Just caught up in some paperwork, my love. You know how it is.” Turning around again, Jolaine hastily stuffed all the scattered papers into a leather folder. “Just give me a moment.”_

_Ronan drew nearer. Peering over her shoulder, he glimpsed the bright flash of Daggerfall court seals on handwritten documents with elaborate script. “Jo, what_ are _those?” he asked, his brow furrowing._

_“Nothing, Ronan.” Sounding agitated, she attempted to hide it inside the folder._

_Ignoring her protest, Ronan plucked one of the sheets out of her grasp and examined it. His eyes widened when he saw the first line:_

Being a Treaty of Peace Between the Territory of High Rock and the Independent Nation of Skyrim 

_“What are you doing with official court documents, Jo?” he demanded. “What kind of client would ask you to risk your neck to get these?”_

_Jolaine said nothing, but her eyes flitted back to the few documents still lying out in the open. Ronan followed her gaze to a lone letter on the top of the haphazard pile, and his breath caught in his throat out of shock._

_The letterhead bore a winged golden star._

“What is it, lad?” Brynjolf asked, his voice bringing Ronan out of his thoughts.

Ronan nervously chewed on his lip. “I — I’m ashamed to say it, but I _think_ I know what the Dragonborn’s talking about. Before I left on this job, I — I discovered that Jo — that _Jolaine_ had stolen official court documents. A peace treaty between High Rock and Skyrim. And...” He paused for a moment, unsure of how to say it. “She had a letter. A letter emblazoned with a winged golden star.”

Brynjolf glanced at Kajsa, who only exhaled harshly.

Ronan swallowed. “It was from the Dominion, wasn’t it?” he asked, even though he already knew what the answer would be. “What did they want with that peace treaty?”

 “My question exactly,” Brynjolf said. “Lass, our business is secrets, but I don’t think I ever heard of this particular one. I want to know what’s going on that’s so covert, you won’t even tell the Guild about it.”

Kajsa stared coolly at him for a moment before re-crossing her arms and turning around again, not facing either of them. Ronan and Brynjolf waited for her to speak.

“Skyrim is at war, gentlemen.” Her voice was quiet, but full of portent. “Not a war with its own countrymen pitted against each other on a battlefield, as the Civil War was, but a war in the shadows.” She sighed. “Others are aware of it, of course, but only those waging it know of its full import.”

“You’re fighting the Dominion, lass,” Brynjolf stated simply. “You and Ulfric.”

Kajsa turned around, her dark eyes unfathomable. “We have been for some time, and so has Skyrim. But ever since my husband and I were crowned, it has begun in earnest.

“Some battles — Skyrim gaining a formal separation from the Empire — were more open than others. But what was not as well known were our other diplomatic dealings: the alliance with Hammerfell, the peace treaty with High Rock...” A shadow passed over her face. “We took great pains to ensure that the Dominion would not be aware of them, but thanks to _Marat_ , we failed in the latter.”

Ronan wanted to ask more about Jolaine’s involvement, but the words stuck in his throat. _No. I don’t want to know._

“Valmir,” he finally asked. “How — how did you know about him?” _Jo_ must _have known about him, known that he was with the Dominion — otherwise, she wouldn’t have sent me that letter —_

“Ever since he showed up in Skyrim, Valmir’s been sticking out: snooping around barrows and Dwarven ruins, asking suspicious questions of court mages. He even went up to the College of Winterhold to try to gain access to the Arcanaeum.” Kajsa smiled sourly. “The latter was what caught my attention.”

“Oh, so Enthir’s in on this and I’m not?” Brynjolf asked irritably.

Kajsa shrugged. “He’s as much in the dark as you were; I just told him to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity at the College. Even though I’m not Guildmaster anymore, most of the fences are still loyal to me. They’re valuable informants, Bryn, and you can’t deny that.”

“I suppose,” Brynjolf admitted grudgingly. “But why not tell any of us, lass? I can understand not informing the junior members, maybe Tonilia and the Flagon staff, but Del... Vex... Karliah... me...” He shook his head. “And Yusef’s your housecarl and your steward; does even _he_ not know?”

Kajsa’s face softened a little bit, but her eyes were still dark. “You know what happened the last time the Guild got involved with the Thalmor, Bryn.” Her gaze shifted to Ronan, but only for an instant. “I don’t want to send any of you into harm’s way if I can help it.”

 _“Harm’s way?” Do they think I’m…_ dangerous _because of what happened with Jo?_ Ronan shifted in his seat. “I — I still have one more question: why did you even bring me here? I mean,” he said hastily, as both pairs of eyes turned to him, “if I was with a Thalmor agent, why didn’t you just kill me? Were you... _looking_ for me?”

“Yes,” Kajsa said shortly.

Ronan swallowed. “For how long?”

It was Brynjolf who answered, his face solemn. “A year or so. We had Del check with a couple of informants, write to the other Guilds to see if maybe you were in their ranks... but I guess that Marat concealed _that_ as well.”

 _Even more questions than before..._ “ _Why_ were you looking for me?”

Both the Guildmaster and the Dragonborn glanced at each other with inscrutable looks.

In the silence, someone knocked on the doorframe. Ronan craned his head around to try to see who it was, but whoever had knocked was staying out of sight of the doorway.

Brynjolf sighed. “We’re a little busy right now.”

“Even for me, Brynjolf?” The voice was soft and even; Ronan had to strain to hear it.

Brynjolf hesitated for a moment. “No, not at all. You can come in, Karliah.”

The new speaker finally came into view: a tall Dunmer in well-worn Guild leathers with shoulder-length brown hair and grave violet eyes. Her gaze went not to either him or Brynjolf, but to Kajsa, and she smiled. “Kajsa. It’s good to see you again.”

“Karliah.” Kajsa returned the gesture, hugging her tightly. “How was your trip?”

“Well enough. We’ll speak of it later.” She studied Kajsa carefully. “I was hoping to pay you another visit when I returned, but Yusef told me that you were not in Windhelm. I must admit, I didn’t —”

“— expect to find me in Riften?” the other finished wryly. “To be honest, neither did I.”

Brynjolf cleared his throat. “Karliah... she found him.” He inclined his head towards Ronan.

Slowly, Karliah turned around and froze in place. She stared at him in utter shock and disbelief, her eyes full of sorrow. Disturbed, yet held in place by her gaze, Ronan stayed seated.

At long last, she turned her head. “By the shadows... he _does_ look like his father,” she murmured to herself, her voice pained.

Ronan frowned. _Two people in the same night who think that they knew my father..._ “I — I think you’re mistaken.”

Karliah’s eyes snapped back to him, filled with anger rather than sadness. “I am _not_ mistaken!” she insisted, her voice rising with emotion. “Nocturnal only knows how long that those features, that voice have haunted me —”

“I never knew my father,” Ronan said firmly, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m an orphan. I was raised in Honorhall; I never knew either of my parents.”

Karliah fell silent, glancing at Brynjolf and Kajsa for confirmation.

“He mentioned it before,” Kajsa supplied. “I’m fairly sure he’s telling the truth.”

“Why would I lie about something like that?” Ronan burst out. “I don’t know why you’re looking for me or who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong person!”

Karliah shook her head. “No, Ronan. We do not.”

It took a moment for him to fully register what she said. “Wait... how do you know my —” 

“Nocturnal told us of you, Ronan,” Karliah said quietly. “It was She who ordered us to find you.”

Ronan swallowed. _Nocturnal... the Daedric Prince of Luck, patron of thieves... looking for_ me _? But why?_ “Why?” he asked aloud.

“I do not know what our Lady has in store for you,” Karliah confessed, “but please: you must come with us.”

“You want to take him to the Hall, lass?” Brynjolf asked, surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Karliah said firmly. “We need to seek guidance... and we must take Ronan with us.” She gave him a sort of half-smile, but it was sad and weary. “I’m not asking you to trust us. But please: just follow us, and I swear to you that all of your questions will be answered.”

Ronan hesitated for a moment. “Fine,” he said before he could think it over. “I’ll hold you to that, though.”

_But will the answers be ones I want to hear?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ A conversation with Nocturnal.


	5. In the Dark

“So let me get this straight,” Ronan said slowly. “Nocturnal Herself told you to find me, but you have no idea why.”

Brynjolf, now clad in a set of sleek, caped armor formed from overlapping scales of black leather, nodded in assent. “That’s... _mostly_ accurate, lad. Karliah and I were the only members of the Trinity present at the time though.”

Ronan frowned. “‘Trinity’?”

“Brynjolf refers to the Nightingale Trinity,” Karliah, also dressed in armor similar to the Guildmaster’s, explained patiently. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“Oh.” Ronan mentally kicked himself for not recognizing the name earlier. “Of course I have, but I thought that the Trinity was a myth.”

Despite her grave demeanor, Karliah smiled slightly. “That assumption was seeded into the Guild on purpose. Of course, the speculation over the years has somewhat cracked the illusion of secrecy, but the vast majority of thieves don’t even know if it exists.”

“But it does.” Ronan glanced around at his surroundings: a moss-covered hall lined with faded banners on the walls and burning braziers. _I wouldn’t be standing in their headquarters if it wasn’t real_ _…_

“So if you and the Guildmaster are both Nightingales, and the Nightingales form a trinity,” he asked tentatively, “who’s the third Nightingale?”

“I am.” He nearly jumped at the sound of Kajsa’s voice coming from beside him; even though she was still wearing her Guild leathers and bulky cloak, she moved as silently as a ghost. “Karliah is the Agent of Stealth, and Brynjolf is the Agent of Subterfuge. I am both the Agent of Strife and the Champion of Nocturnal.”

“How does a thief and a Daedric Champion become High Queen of Skyrim?” The question was out of Ronan’s mouth before he could stop it.

A wry, yet sour smile touched her lips. “It’s a long story, but the short version is this: I’m the Dragonborn, I fought for the Stormcloaks, and I married the man who led them. Does that answer your question?” The last sentence held a touch of acid.

“Ah. Alright then,” Ronan managed, not really sure how to respond to her bluntness.

Kajsa turned to Karliah. “How do you propose doing this?”

“We’ll all go in,” Karliah said. “Ronan will stand with you. Then I will summon Nocturnal. And...” Her voice faltered for a moment, her eyes lingering on Ronan. “We’ll see what happens.”

Brynjolf nodded in assent. “Fine by me.”

“Wait a moment,” Ronan found himself saying, feeling all eyes turning to him. “I still have one more question.”

“What is it?” Karliah asked tentatively.

Ronan swallowed. “You — you all kept mentioning my parents, my father in particular. I never even knew them; what do they have to do with any of this?”

Brynjolf answered in the Dunmer’s stead. “When Nocturnal told us to find you, lad, she told us that you were the son of — of someone we knew before,” he finished uneasily, glancing at both Karliah and Kajsa. “Kajsa’s predecessor as Guildmaster and Agent of Strife.”

Ronan blinked in surprise. _One of my parents was part of the Skyrim Thieves Guild..._ and _the Nightingales?_ “‘Predecessor’?”

“He’s dead now,” Kajsa said abruptly, striding ahead of the others. “Come on. We haven’t got all night.”

Pulling her hood and mask up to conceal her face, Karliah followed Kajsa up the stairs and into the narrow hallway ahead; after a moment, Brynjolf and Ronan fell in step behind the two women. Pulling a chain hanging from the ceiling, Kajsa paused and waited for a row of iron spikes to vanish into some holes in the floor before continuing on. Karliah trailed after her, and after following the Dunmer’s lead by adjusting his own hood and mask, Brynjolf then proceeded after her.

Ronan stepped out of the passage last, glancing around at the huge chamber that the four of them had entered into. There was a circular stone dais in the center, the seal on the floor bearing the insignia of a stylized bird whose wings cupped a full moon. Branching off of the dais were three arcing walkways leading to miniature versions of the parent structure. Following Kajsa out to what appeared to be the westernmost circle, Ronan inched next to her and waited.

The figure in Nightingale armor on the circle next to them (judging by the slight frame, it was Karliah) knelt on one knee, lifting both of her hands in supplication and raising her voice. “I call upon You, Lady Nocturnal: Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow. Hear my voice and answer my summons!”

Her words echoed off the moss-coated walls for a moment, and then the chamber fell completely silent. A split-second later, the air around the three of them grew dryer and thinner as a round, roiling void of deepest purple, ringed with shadowy smoke, crackled into sudden existence, hovering over the largest circle.

Next to him, Kajsa knelt down and bowed her head as Karliah and Brynjolf did the same. Unsure of what to do, Ronan hastily followed their lead.

A harsh and brassy, yet distinctly feminine voice emanated from the void. “Ah, Karliah. Back again, I see — with good news this time, I trust?” There was a slightly mocking tone to her words.

“Yes, my Lady: _very_ good news.” Karliah rose to her feet as the others did so. “Ronan Sorleigh has been found.”

“But not by you or your fellow Agent of Subterfuge,” Nocturnal pointed out crossly. “Once again, my Champion did not disappoint me in this.” The void seemed to turn towards the westernmost circle, and Ronan had the uncomfortable feeling that it was looking right at him. “But no matter. You have proven yourself useful nonetheless, Karliah.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Karliah said gratefully.

 _Her thanks are but trifling._ Ronan gave a start as Nocturnal’s voice echoed within his head. _You and I have more important things to talk about, Ronan Sorleigh._

“Lad?” he heard Brynjolf say, but it was as if from a great distance: faded and indistinct. “What’s going on with you?”

 _Pay no heed to them_ _,_ Nocturnal commanded testily. _What I have to say to you is for your ears, not for theirs._

“What is it, then?” Ronan asked aloud.

Almost instantly, he gritted his teeth as a searing, throbbing pain wracked his skull. _Answer me with your mind, not your mouth,_  Nocturnal snarled. _This is between you and I; do you not understand that?_

 _Not really,_ he thought irritably. _How in bloody Oblivion does one talk with their mind?_

A dry laugh rang out. _It_ _is_ _easier than you might think, Ronan... so to speak._

Ronan reddened. _I_ _—_ _I apologize, my Lady,_ he thought quickly. _What did You want to speak to me about?_

 _First you. What do_ you _wish to speak to_ me _about?_ She laughed a rich, throaty laugh at his confusion. _I know that your mind is troubled. I know that you have questions that my Nightingales will not answer. Ask them._

Ronan had more questions than he could count, but he chose one. _Why did You ask them to find me_ _?_ he thought desperately.

 _A curious question,_ Nocturnal purred. _Karliah and Brynjolf wanted information. I made a bargain with them: three questions for them_ _and their companion..._ _and you for me._

 _No, I_ _—_ _I meant to ask what_ _Y_ _ou wanted with me,_ Ronan rephrased, trying not to become frustrated. _Do they know?_

 _They_ think _they know._  Nocturnal sounded unbearably smug. _My Trinity is under the impression that you will become one of my Nightingales. It may yet be true, but I am considering..._ other _alternatives._

Ronan didn’t quite know how to respond to that vaguely threatening statement.

 _Oh, d_ _o no_ _t fret; I do not mean to have you killed,_ Nocturnal assured exasperatedly. _You are far too special and unique to be put down like a dog._

 _What do You mean?_ Ronan asked uneasily.

 _You are quite talented, Ronan. I_ _woul_ _d like to think that I had a hand in that; after all, I_ have _been watching you for quite a while._ There was a hint of amusement in Her words, but it faded quickly. _I like to keep an eye on the children of my Nightingales, as they often turn out to be excellent thieves. Karliah has_ _already_ _been mine for a long time, and I have no_ _particular_ _interest in my Champion’s son, but_ you — _the son of my traitor Nightingale, one of the greatest thieves to walk Tamriel — I_ _have_ great _interest in._

Ronan furrowed his brow. _“_ _Traitor Nightingale”?_

 _Ah, but I forget. You never knew your dear father._  Nocturnal’s voice was as sharp as a blade. _The name of your father was Mercer Frey. You have never heard of him, hmm? Never heard his name whispered behind your back?_

Ronan’s confusion deepened. _No. I haven’t._

 _N_ _o surprise there_ _, I suppose_ _. The High Rock and Skyrim Guilds do_ _no_ _t quite see eye-to-eye on most matters, so perhaps it is for the better that you don’t know what kind of man your father was and the reputation that he had._ Nocturnal seemed to muse for a moment. _Ask my Nightingales about him. They will not be the most unbiased source, of course, but it_ _will_ _give you_ something _, will it not?_

 _Is that Your command?_ Ronan asked carefully.

 _If I tell you to do something, Ronan, you do it,_  Nocturnal snapped. _No excuses, no hesitation. Like my Nightingales, I expect you to be unswervingly loyal to me. Do you understand that?_

Ronan sighed. He couldn’t exactly say that he liked where this conversation was going, but judging from what he knew of the Daedra, they were not to be defied lightly. _I understand._

 _Good. I have some tasks for you,_ Nocturnal said succinctly. _The first you already know of. The second is this: when my Champion leaves Riften, you must accompany her. Your path will lead you back here soon enough, but you must go with her for now._

 _Why?_ he thought, then flinched involuntarily, as if to prepare for another upbraiding.

Surprisingly, Nocturnal did not chide him for his mistake. _A great darkness is coming, Ronan: one even greater than the Evergloam itself, one that will consume the world if it is not stopped._ Her voice held none of its harshness from before; Ronan could almost swear that he heard a trace of dread in Her words. _The Dragonborn is doing her part to stay it, but it is_ your _destiny that lies in this darkness... not hers._

Ronan swallowed at the ominous prophecy. _What is th_ _is_ _darkness that You speak of?_

 _Too many questions, Ronan,_  She warned.

Ronan fell silent for a moment. Then: _My Lady, what if Kajsa doesn’t believe that I’m supposed to go with her? She isn’t exactly..._ trusting.

Nocturnal laughed. _My Champion trusts few, least of all you. However, if she does not believe you..._ She mused over something. _T_ _ell her that_ _the daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts._

He was going to ask what that meant, but his head suddenly felt very light and weightless, as if everything within his skull had been blown out by a violent blast of wind. As throbbing pain pounded behind his eyes, Ronan’s knees buckled and his world went black.

 

Ronan cracked one eye open. Despite the dim light, he squeezed his eyes shut again; even this relative darkness seemed too bright, glowing even behind his eyelids.

“Lad? Are you all right?” Brynjolf’s brogue, tinged with caution, sounded far too loud and close.

With a groan, Ronan tried to sit up, still keeping his eyes shut and blindly pushing himself up from the cold stone. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him into a seated position, causing his fingers to scrape along the rough floor.

“What happened?” he heard Karliah ask; Ronan was surprised to hear her soft, lilting voice so clearly, in all of its purpose and pain.

“Damned if I know.” Kajsa’s voice: low and slightly hoarse, as usual, but a strong undercurrent of some ancient power flowed underneath the surface. “He collapsed, Nocturnal vanished, and then I dragged him down here so he wouldn’t fall off and break his neck.”

Cautiously, Ronan opened his eyes, wincing as the dim light flooded into his eyes; the muted blue-greys of the cavern seemed much richer and darker than they had before, and he could see into even the most shadowed of its corners. He was sprawled on the center dais, with a now-unhooded Brynjolf crouched beside him. Karliah, also unhooded, and Kajsa stood nearby.

“Lad?” Brynjolf repeated, letting go of his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“I — I don’t know. I don’t think so,” he managed.

 _You_ _a_ _re perfectly fine, Ronan. It_ _will_ _just take you a little time to adjust._

Ronan mouth went dry at the harsh, all-too-familiar voice. _Nocturnal?_

 _What other Daedric Prince would it be, Ronan?_ Despite Her frosty tone, She sounded slightly amused.

 _What did You do to me?_ he demanded desperately.

 _I_ _ha_ _ve merely placed a fragment of myself within you, inside your mind. You need_ _not_ _worry; it_ _is_ _not particularly harmful._

“‘Not particularly harmful’?!” Ronan shouted. “You’re inside my head! You can hear my thoughts; You can probably control me, too!”

Kajsa’s eyes grew dark. Karliah gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, and Brynjolf jerked back from him. Ronan realized then that he had shouted aloud.

Nocturnal only laughed at his anger. _There_ _is_ _no need to be so dramatic. It_ _i_ _s only a small fragment: just large enough to establish a link between you and I. I can communicate with my future Champion when I choose, and in return, you receive some_ _..._ added benefits. _I think you will quite enjoy them,_ She purred.

Ronan didn’t even hear the last part of that sentence. _What? I_ _— I_ _’m going to be_ _—_ _Your_ Champion? _But I thought that —_ He faltered, expecting to be reprimanded.

There was no answer.

“Lad!” Brynjolf ordered. “What’s going on?”

Ronan sucked in a deep breath, realizing that he must appear insane to them. “I — I think Nocturnal’s inside my head,” he said slowly, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“She — our Lady attached Herself… to _you_?” Karliah’s tone was one of disbelief, but her eyes betrayed something akin to disdain.

“You sound… surprised,” Ronan managed.

“A bit,” she confessed, her voice neutral again. “Nocturnal grants us Her powers and speaks to all of us when She deems fit, but to attach Herself to someone, especially an Uninitiated...” Karliah trailed off. “It is very rare.”

“What does this mean, then?” Kajsa asked shortly.

“I don’t know, Kajsa,” Karliah admitted with a sigh.

Ronan swallowed. “She — Nocturnal, I mean — She said that — that She established the link to —” He steadied his breathing, hoping desperately not to stumble over his words this time. “She said that She established the link to communicate with Her future Champion.” He glanced involuntarily towards Kajsa; the other two Nightingales followed his gaze.

Kajsa pursed her lips in thought. “So Nocturnal wishes to be rid of me... preferably before I come to Her and demand to be released, as I have done to so many of Her brothers.” She laughed harshly. “Does She want me dead?”

“I — I don’t think so. Although...” A chill ran down Ronan’s spine. “She told me that I was to go with you when you left Riften.”

“To kill me, no doubt,” Kajsa finished accusingly, “and take my place as Champion.”

“I don’t even want to be Nocturnal’s Champion!” Ronan protested. “Oblivion, I never wanted to get mixed up in this — _any_ of it!”

She smiled without humor. “Try discovering that you’re the Last Dragonborn.”

“High Queen,” he tried again. “I’m not going to kill you, and I don’t think Nocturnal means to have you killed either. She said that it was my destiny to help you.”

“The Daedra say a lot of things, and most of the time, it’s all lies and subterfuge,” Kajsa said in steely tones. “And I’ve pissed off enough of them to know that they’re quite vindictive, especially when you break promises with them.”

Ronan chewed his lip for a moment, wracking his brain for what to say next. “Nocturnal said that you wouldn’t believe me, so… she told me to tell you that —” _what was the phrase?_ “— that the daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts.”

There was complete silence after his words. Brynjolf and Karliah both looked troubled. Kajsa turned away, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes pained. Ronan waited anxiously, unsure of the significance of the phrase.

Finally, Kajsa spoke quietly. “What else did Nocturnal say to you?”

 _That my father was one of you once: a Nightingale, a thief with the Skyrim Guild._ He considered what to say for a moment. _But what will they say to me in return?_

“Tell me about Mercer Frey,” he managed. “Tell me about — about my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Unsurprisingly, nobody really wants to tell Ronan about Mercer Frey, but (eventually) Ronan is told.


	6. Hard Answers

For once, the usually-loquacious Brynjolf was struck dumb. “Mercer Frey?” he finally managed. “Wherever did you hear _that_ name, lad?”

“From Nocturnal, most likely,” Kajsa said dryly. “After all, She _is_ inside his head.”

Ronan nodded to confirm. “She told me to ask you about — about him. Mercer. My — my _father_.” To call a man that he never knew “father” was much stranger than he could have ever imagined it to be. _After so many years of not knowing anything about him... and now,_ this _…_

“Has Nocturnal told you anything about him already?” Karliah’s voice was quiet and unexpectedly pained.

“Only his name,” he answered tentatively. “But... She _did_ call him Her ‘traitor Nightingale.’ Why is that?”

Karliah’s face was unexpectedly grim. “Because he broke his oath to Nocturnal and betrayed both the Guild and the Nightingales. He —” Her voice cracked and she could not continue.

“Lass, you don’t have to speak of this,” Brynjolf said firmly, but gently. “ _Either_ of you,” he added, glancing at a hard-eyed Kajsa.

Kajsa shrugged tightly. “Fine by me. You’re good at explanations anyway, Bryn. Explain away.” With that said, she turned on one heel and stalked away towards the corridor back into Nightingale Hall; after a moment of hesitation and a last look at Ronan, Karliah followed her.

Heaving a sigh, Brynjolf settled himself into a seated position on the cold stone floor. “Don’t mind them, lad. Everyone gets a little touchy when Mercer’s mentioned, and those two get more riled up than most.”

“And you don’t?” Ronan asked.

Brynjolf smiled humorlessly. “I was Mercer’s Second before I became Guildmaster, lad. I’d be lying if I told you that his actions didn’t affect me, too.”

“You knew my father as well?” Ronan brought his knees up, leaning forward on them.

“As much as was possible, lad. I knew him from when I was young, but even today, I still don’t know everything about him.” Brynjolf scrutinized him. “You _do_ look a lot like him, you know. Your hair’s got a touch more of ginger than Mercer ever had, but other than that...” He trailed off.

 _I look just like him,_ Ronan finished to himself a tad tiredly. “Do — do you know who my mother was?”

Brynjolf shook his head. “As far as I knew, Mercer wasn’t married and he wasn’t planning to marry. He didn’t strike me as a particularly romantic man.”

Ronan swallowed. _Who was my mother, then? If not his wife, what was she to him?_ “Do you think my father even knew about me?” he tried again.

“I don’t know, lad,” Brynjolf said simply.

“So I’m just a bastard, then,” Ronan concluded bitterly. _Abandoned. Dumped at Honorhall because neither_ _one_ _wanted me._

“Probably,” Brynjolf admitted. “But being a bastard isn’t a damning thing, lad. I’m one myself, you know.”

Ronan frowned at him in surprise.

“My mother was the Jarl of Winterhold’s mistress for a time,” the other explained. “She died of fever when I was seven, and Korir had me sent to Honorhall to try and dispel the rumors about my parentage.” Brynjolf snorted in disdain.

“So you grew up in Honorhall, too,” Ronan said with a wry smile, “dreaming of getting out and becoming _somebody_ like all the other children there.”

Brynjolf chuckled. “Lad, I never even _got_ to Honorhall. I ran away and lived on the streets of Riften for a day or two before I tried to pick someone’s pocket to get some coin. My mark caught me – but fortunately for me, my mark happened to be Gallus Desidenius, the Guildmaster before Mercer.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “Gallus took me under his wing and taught me all he knew about thieving. He was a good man.”

“What happened to him?” The words were out of Ronan’s mouth before he could stop them.

A shadow fell over Brynjolf’s face. “He was murdered,” he finally said. “I think you can guess by whom.”

Ronan tensed. _By_ _—_ _by my father_ _—_ _by Mercer?_ “Why did Mercer kill Gallus?” he asked, his voice wavering.

Brynjolf sighed heavily, pushing his hair back from his face. “Mercer desecrated the Twilight Sepulchure and stole the Skeleton Key of Nocturnal — which, as a Nightingale, he was sworn to protect. And then he used it for his own personal gain... which included him stealing from the Guild.” His normally bright eyes were dark and troubled. “Gallus discovered this, and Mercer murdered him before he exposed him. He framed Karliah for the murder, sending her on the run... and then Mercer assumed the position of Guildmaster and no one was the wiser for twenty-five years.”

Ronan’s breath caught in his throat. “That’s — that’s despicable,” he choked out. “What would — _why_ would —?”

“I don’t know, lad,” Brynjolf said grimly. “And now, we never will.”

Unbidden, Karliah’s haunted face resurfaced in Ronan’s mind, protesting that she could never forget his face; the recollection chilled him to the bone. _Every time she looks at me... she sees the man who destroyed her life._ Despite himself, he felt a sort of shame at the realization.

“What happened then?” His voice was no more than a hoarse, fearful whisper. “Why is Mercer dead?”

“Because the truth came out,” Brynjolf said simply. “Karliah returned to Skyrim to sabotage the Guild and bring Mercer’s treachery to light. Kajsa discovered the truth of what _really_ happened twenty-five years ago... and Mercer tried to silence her as well.” His mouth tightened for an instant. “She and Karliah gave the Guild proof of Mercer’s deeds, but by then, it was almost too late. The vault was completely empty and Mercer was long gone.”

“‘Almost’?” Ronan questioned.

“Mercer fled to a Dwemer ruin called Irkngthand in order to carry out one last heist that would set him up for life: stealing a pair of massive gemstones called the Eyes of the Falmer. Karliah inducted Kajsa and I into the Nightingales, and the three of us followed him there in order to stop him.”

“And you did.” Ronan fell silent for a moment. Then: “Who killed him? Was it Karliah?”

Brynjolf shook his head. “Karliah and I were trapped. Kajsa dealt the killing blow.”

Looking down at his hands, Ronan said nothing for a while, unsure of what to do or say. _I found my father... but he was not at all who I expected._

 _No one ever is, Ronan._ He gave a start as Nocturnal’s voice whispered in his mind again. _Everyone_ _is_ _always hiding_ something, _and your father hid more than most._

 _What else_ could _he hide?_ he thought miserably.

There was no answer. Ronan sighed, a harsh, angry sound; he hadn’t necessarily been expecting an answer, anyway.

Brynjolf was scrutinizing him, concerned. “Do you want some time to yourself, lad?”

“No,” Ronan said, slightly more brusquely than intended. “Let’s just — let’s just leave.” He clambered to his feet and started towards the entryway, then stopped, remembering something.

Behind him, Brynjolf’s footsteps ceased. “What is it, lad?”

Ronan turned around. “What does ‘the daggers in men’s smiles will turn unto their hearts’ mean?” he asked slowly. “The way you all reacted to that... it was as though you’d heard it before.”

“It’s a part of a code, lad. Both a distress call and a rallying cry... inspired by Mercer’s betrayal.” Brynjolf’s face was grave. “The last time it was used... well, _that_ was the last time we found ourselves calling upon Nocturnal.”

 

“No,” Kajsa said immediately. “The answer is no.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, it’s the only choice we have.” By now, Karliah had regained control of her emotions and was now calm and logical once more. “We can’t let him stay with the Guild in the Cistern. We can’t just let him go on his way; we’ve come too far and shown him too much for that to be a viable option now. He has to go with you.”

“And don’t you care about whether I live or die?” Kajsa asked sarcastically.

“You are a more than capable fighter, and I don’t believe that Nocturnal would pit us against each other,” Karliah said firmly. “If Our Lady has decided to place Her faith in him, we should strive to do the same... no matter how difficult it may be.” Her eyes fell from Kajsa’s face.

“You can’t separate him from Mercer in your mind, same as I.”

Karliah nodded slowly. “Ronan is... so _different_ from his father: not arrogant, not cruel, not hateful. But when I look at him —” her voice cracked with emotion “— I see Mercer as he was twenty-seven years ago.”

Kajsa was quiet for a moment. Then: “What will you and Brynjolf do while I’m gone?”

“We might as well let Delvin and Vex know about Ronan; they already suspect something, anyway.” Karliah smiled briefly, but sadly. “Then if Ronan ends up staying longer... we should probably inform the other thieves as well. They may not like it, but...” She trailed off.

“Karliah, you’re not actually considering letting him become part of the Guild, are you?” Kajsa asked in disbelief.

“We don’t know what could happen at this point, Kajsa. His future is still... _uncertain_ at best. But what I do know is that all three of us — all three of the Nightingales — are based in or around Riften. If he truly _is_ to become the Champion of Nocturnal, then he may very well wish to seek out our guidance and counsel on matters related to Her.”

“And what if he just wants to leave?” Kajsa challenged.

Karliah was already shaking her head. “Knowledge is like a drug, Kajsa. Once you get a taste of it, you always are left wanting more... until you imbibe too much for you to handle.” She smiled again, just as ruefully as before. “Ronan’s not going to leave. He’s going to want to find out more: about the Nightingales, about Nocturnal... and _especially_ about his father.”

Kajsa said nothing, her lips tightening in remembered pain.

“He’ll ask at some point, you know,” Karliah said. “About why –”

“And I won’t tell him,” Kajsa snarled. “ _That_ is my own business, not his.”

Karliah fell silent. “All right,” she conceded softly. “But he’ll want to know one day exactly _why_ you hate Mercer so much.”

“Because he tried to kill you.” Ronan emerged from the corridor to the summoning chamber, looking back and forth between the two other Nightingales. “Right?” he ventured cautiously.

 _Sure_ _..._ _let’s go with that._ “I take you filled him in on all the sordid details, Bryn?” Kajsa asked pointedly, turning from him to Brynjolf.

“Aye, lass,” Brynjolf answered. “He knows.”

Kajsa focused on Ronan again, noticing that he looked considerably shaken: pale face, anguished eyes, nails cutting into the palms of his hands. He kept glancing at Karliah as if he wanted to say something, but he stayed mute.

Kajsa addressed him, breaking the silence and dispelling her thoughts for the time. “You can stay at the Hall tonight, but meet me by the Riften stables early tomorrow morning.” She gritted her teeth for an instant to steel herself. _Dear Gods and Daedra,_ why _am I doing this?_ “I’m riding back to Windhelm then, and you’re coming with me.”

Ronan nodded without saying a word, resigning himself to his fate without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa (and a few more familiar faces) return to Windhelm.


	7. Cold As Stone

Despite her troubled mind, Kajsa felt overwhelmingly relieved upon setting foot inside Windhelm again. What once seemed harsh and unwelcoming — the towering buildings battered by wind and snow, the uneven streets covered with ice, the ancient walls carved with primeval Nordic designs looming behind her — now seemed more like a sanctuary of sorts: allowing some in and deterring others.

 _Defending us from t_ _hose who want to harm me or my family... or Skyrim._ A stray snowflake brushed over one of the scars on her cheek and she flinched involuntarily. _The Dominion has stayed away from Windhelm thus far, but I fear they may have grown too bold..._

Ronan spoke from beside her, quiet and subdued. “So this is Windhelm? The capitol of Skyrim?”

Kajsa glanced over at him; it was the first she’d heard him speak since they’d left Riften that morning. “Yes.”

His brow furrowed. “I thought that the capitol was Solitude.”

“The Civil War changed some things,” she said wryly. “The location of Skyrim’s capitol was one of them.”

Ronan nodded without a word.

Kajsa sighed. “Come on. The Palace of the Kings isn’t far.” She started walking, wrapping her fur cloak a little tighter around herself. “You can take off your hood if you want, but it might be a little cold for that.”

Ronan cracked a small smile, but sobered quickly as he began to follow her.

With every step she took, Kajsa found herself sinking back into her thoughts again, but she pushed aside all thought of the Thalmor and dragon priests to focus on Ronan. _Right now,_ he _is the immediate concern._

The journey up North had been a silent one. He hadn’t talked, and she hadn’t encouraged him to. Ronan had simply ridden onwards, a lost, pained expression on his face; clearly, he’d still been thinking about Mercer and Nocturnal and everything else that had transpired yesterday.

Surprisingly, she found herself pitying him: a little, at least. She knew all too well what it was like to have your life transformed in a single night.

“Is this the Palace of the Kings?” Ronan asked suddenly.

Jerked out of her melancholy thoughts again, Kajsa looked up at the massive structure before her: the oldest in all of Windhelm and still standing even hundreds of years later. The evening wind had lessened considerably, mostly due to them standing in the walled-off courtyard, but snow still floated through the air above.

“Yes.” She started walking towards one of the tall, studded bronze doors ahead. “We should get inside.” _I have a feeling that there will be more than a few people waiting for me... wouldn’t want to disappoint them._

 

Pulling off his hood at last, Ronan gazed around him at the glory of the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. With the great slabs of stone that formed the walls and the lofty ceiling, the grey-blue banners embroidered with snarling bear heads on the walls and carpets of the same hue covering the cold floor, and the towering throne against the back wall that lorded over the whole hall, he somehow had no trouble believing that this ancient, yet stately palace was now the seat of government in Skyrim. It seemed to echo the proud, hardy spirit of the Nords themselves.

“Not as grand as what you’ve seen in Daggerfall, I’m sure,” Kajsa murmured, but her tone was more amused than accusing.

“Nord and Breton architecture are in different categories entirely,” he said carefully. “They — they can’t really be compared. The styles are... very far from each other.”

Kajsa laughed quietly, pushing her own hood back from her face as well. “Diplomat.”

He smiled weakly. “I — I try.”

“High Queen!”

Ronan turned his head at the unfamiliar voice. A broad-chested Redguard man with a close-cropped beard, outfitted in ornate armor of overlapping steel plates with jointed pauldrons, was striding towards them. Though clad in heavy armor, his steps were light, and Ronan was willing to bet that the man had at least one concealed dagger on his person.

A knowing smile on his face and a keen look in his eye, the man stopped before them and inclined his head slightly. “Good to see you back and in one piece,” he said. “How was Riften?”

“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself without a housecarl, Yusef,” Kajsa replied darkly, but she was smiling as she said it. “How did you know I was in Riften?”

“Well, besides the fact that you just confirmed it for me,” Yusef said, “I made an educated guess based on where Karliah was heading after she left Windhelm. Did you see her?”

“Yes,” Kajsa said, “and Brynjolf, too.” She produced two folded and sealed papers from a pouch on her bandolier and handed them both to Yusef. “A report from her, and a letter for you from him.”

Yusef took them both gratefully. “Thank you for your couriership: reliable, as always.”

Letting out a short laugh, Kajsa turned to Ronan. “Yusef, this is Ronan Sorleigh. Ronan, this is Yusef Messala, my housecarl.”

“And your unofficial steward, for all I do in Windhelm — and elsewhere,” Yusef said lightly. He scrutinized Ronan for a moment, and his gaze made Ronan feel distinctly dissected. “Is he a new one of ours?”

Kajsa’s lips curled in what might have been disgust. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s a bit of a long story.” She changed the subject deftly. “Where is Ulfric?”

“In the war room, bickering with Galmar. He’ll be glad to see that you’re back.” Yusef lowered his voice slightly. “I’ll warn you: he wasn’t exactly pleased at your leaving so suddenly. Despite my own work here in Windhelm, he gave me a lot of shit for letting you go off on your own.”

Kajsa heaved an irritated sigh. “I’ll speak to him.” She clapped Yusef on the shoulder as she walked past. “Thank you, Yusef.”

“Only for you, High Queen,” the other responded dryly.

Ronan followed Kajsa along the length of the hall to a small doorway that lay to one side of the throne, then into a narrow hallway that emerged into a plain, square room with wooden floors. Banners hung on the walls, and aside from a heavy-looking table that dominated the space, there was no other furniture in the room (though Ronan noted that some parts of the floor looked lighter than others and thought that maybe there had once been a chair or crates there). Maps and papers were strewn over the tabletop, some in orderly piles and others far less so. Two older men were leaning over the table and examining the centermost map with equally frustrated glares, but both looked up at their arrival.

One of them, a gruff-looking, bearded man clad in leather armor adorned with bear fur and claws — and also sporting one of the beast’s heads as a helm — was the first to speak. “There you are, Dragonborn. We were wondering when you’d show up for our little meeting. Did you ever get the notice?” His voice was a raspy growl — _not unlike a bear itself,_ thought Ronan, more than a little disconcerted at the notion.

“Very funny, Galmar,” Kajsa said, a touch of acid in her tone. “I was busy, in case you couldn’t tell already.” She unslung the wrapped bundle containing Rahgot’s staff and mask from off her back and laid it on the table.

The other man straightened up. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a close-trimmed beard and long hair the color of goldenrod and a piercing gaze, and he wore a grey embroidered tunic underneath a fur-trimmed robe. Despite his lack of a crown, Ronan could tell from his regal bearing and aura of power that this man was the High King of Skyrim.

“Where have you been, Kajsa?” Ulfric Stormcloak’s voice was deep and rumbling, but not without an edge of steel. “Seeing as that you did not see fit to tell us where you were going, I feel that we should know now.”

“I think you mean ‘me’ and ‘I’ in place of ‘us’ and ‘we,’ Ulfric,” Kajsa corrected tartly, crossing her arms. “And if you _must_ know, I was in the mountains on the southern edge of the Rift.”

Ulfric’s eyes shifted towards the wrapped bundle and then back at her. “And what, pray tell, is in those mountains that was so important?”

“A very unpleasant Nordic barrow called Forelhost that the Thalmor had an unusual interest in.” She smirked upon seeing the stunned looks on their faces. “Now you see that I had a perfectly valid reason for leaving without explanation.”

“We can debate that later,” Ulfric said ominously. “What did you recover?”

Kajsa indicated the bundle. “The mask and staff of the dragon priest within — not to mention,” she added with a glance at Ronan, “I picked up him along the way.”

Ronan swallowed as two pairs of suspicious eyes turned to him. “My name is Ronan Sorleigh,” he said, trying to suppress the waver in his voice as he gave a small bow. “It is an honor to meet you, High King.”

Recognition flickered in Ulfric’s eyes, but it vanished quickly. “I take it you are part of the Guild, then,” he said, gesturing to Ronan’s leathers.

The other frowned in surprise. “How did you –?”

Ulfric chuckled, but not wholly unkindly. “I married a thief, and another thief serves as her right-hand man. I should think that I know Guild armor when I see it.”

Ronan gaped for an instant, but quickly closed his mouth. _Even here, I’m_ _still_ _out of the loop, I suppose._ “You guess correctly,” he said uneasily, “but I’m not with the Skyrim Guild. I’m from High Rock — the Daggerfall chapter, to be more precise.” Too late, he realized what he’d just said. “But I had nothing to do with the attempted sabotage of the peace treaty, I swear,” he added hastily.

Ulfric frowned at his wife. “How much does he know?”

“Just the basics. No details. It was somewhat necessary,” she said sourly.

Ulfric sighed. “ _Hi lost_ _osos_ _gelaarvon wah dreh,_ Kajsa.” Ronan didn’t recognize the language, but there was no mistaking the warning, exasperated tone of his words.

“ _Drem_ _, ahmul,_ _drem_ _,_ ” Kajsa assured in the same guttural tongue before switching back. “I’ll have Jorleif show Ronan to a room. He’ll be staying here tonight before we move on to Winterhold in the morning.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow at the word “we,” but he nodded. Satisfied at his response, Kajsa turned towards a door set in the adjacent wall, opened it, and vanished into the stairwell behind it, closing the door behind her.

Shaking his head, Ulfric turned to address the man that Kajsa had called Galmar. “We can continue our conversation in the morning. Go get some sleep; Talos knows you need it.”

Galmar snorted. “I’d tell you the same thing, but seeing as your wife just returned —”

“I am in no jesting mood, Galmar,” Ulfric said warningly. “ _Go_.”

Abruptly shutting his mouth, the other left the room, brushing past Ronan none too gently as he departed. Ronan remained silent, ill at ease in the still of this unfamiliar place.

Then: “So you’re Ronan Sorleigh.” Ulfric’s fingers continued to drum on the edge of the table. “I trust you’re not planning any... _trouble_.”

Ronan shook his head hastily. “Your wife spared my life. It would be a poor way to repay her for her mercy.”

Ulfric laughed shortly. “‘Mercy’ and ‘Kajsa’ are rarely uttered in the same breath.” He reached for a goblet on the edge of the table and took a sip of its contents. “How much has my wife told you about our endeavors against the Thalmor?”

“A bit,” Ronan said hesitantly. “I’m still unclear on much.”

Ulfric’s eyes bored into him. “Start from the beginning, then. How did you come to be in Skyrim?”

 

The baby’s tiny eyes were shut tight, and his chubby fingers were curled around the straps on the black Guild leathers, anchoring himself to his mother. His mouth formed a stubborn little frown as he slept; Kajsa suppressed a smile at the expression that was so reminiscent of Ulfric.

“The little prince missed his mother,” Berezhi said softly in her low, purring voice. “This one thinks that it will be hard to tear him away.”

“Judging by the death grip he has on me, it’s likely.” Kajsa wrapped her arms a little more securely around her son, stroking the downy blonde hair beginning to grow on his head. “Did he behave while I was gone?”

“He cried the first day, and Khajiit was barely able to calm him down. He was a little better after that, but not by much.”

Kajsa sighed. Despite her many duties as High Queen, she always tried to make time for Torgnyr, but it was still hard for her to leave him when her errands took her outside Windhelm. She trusted Berezhi to look after and care for him, but she could not help worrying about him all the same. _If something should happen to him, my only child — if the Thalmor —_

Berezhi’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Have you heard from this one’s sister?” Her large yellow-green eyes were filled with worry.

“I haven’t received word from Dar’Esti since her crossing the border into Elsweyr. She’s probably infiltrated the palace at Torval by now; it would be far too dangerous for her to send word.”

Berezhi nodded, but her tail still swished behind her agitatedly. “This one prays you are right. Dar’Esti is a good spy and a better assassin — and Khajiit will admit she is _better_ than this one — but she is not cautious enough at times.”

“I have a feeling she’ll be fine, Berezhi, but I can’t say I’m not worried as well.” Kajsa carefully detached Torgnyr from her armor; he barely stirred when she placed him in Berezhi’s waiting arms. “Thank you again for looking after Tor.”

Berezhi smiled proudly. “It is this one’s honor to serve the High Queen and the former Listener.” Carefully cradling the child, she made her way to the ajar door of Ulfric’s chambers. “Sleep well.”

As soon as the door closed behind Berezhi, Kajsa shifted in her seat on the double bed and kicked off her boots, tossing them into a corner of the room followed by her yanked-off gauntlets. Undoing the buckles at the front of her cuirass, she peeled the leather away from her waist and peered at the skin. Her latest wound, a gash she’d received from a persistent and powerful draugr in Forelhost, was healing nicely, thanks to one of her last healing potions, but it still wasn’t pleasant to look at.

 _It’ll scar, but at this point, that’s the least of my concerns._ Standing up and walking to the corner where she’d thrown her boots and gauntlets, Kajsa crouched down and picked them up. Opening the wardrobe they’d fallen near, she placed them inside and then shrugged off her cuirass and hung it up as well.

From behind her, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her bare waist, and she let out a gasp of surprise at the sudden contact as she was pulled backwards against the man’s chest.

“Did I really manage to catch you off-guard?” Ulfric murmured, his voice warm and deep.

Kajsa let out a relieved breath, the tension going out of her. “No.”

He chuckled. “You lie.” His lips brushed against her jaw, at the base of her ear. “I know when I have startled you.”

Kajsa smiled. “And I know that when you use that voice, it’s because you want something.” She turned around, placing her hands on the fur of his robe collar. “Or someone.”

His smile unexpectedly faltered, turning into a deep frown as he glanced away.

“What is it?” she asked, although she had a feeling she already knew what it was.

Ulfric sighed harshly as he faced her again. “How long will this persist, Kajsa?” His voice was not low with lust now, but with anger. “How many more times will I wake up in the morning to find myself in an empty bed with a note on the pillow replacing you? How many more times will I hear Messala's empty explanations for your absences at meetings, or Tor crying out in the middle of the night for a mother who is not there?”

Kajsa bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She turned from him, and his arms fell away from her body as she began to walk towards the bed.

He followed her. “This is why we have your spies and assassins: to investigate and carry out the tasks that we cannot — or rather, _should_ not — do ourselves. You are their _commander_ , not their comrade.”

 “There was no one else to do this and the notice was sudden,” Kajsa argued, whirling around. “I had to —”

“No, you do _not_ have to!” Ulfric shouted suddenly. “It is dangerous outside of Windhelm, Kajsa, and I do not want Skyrim’s High Queen and my _wife_ risking her life over –”

“Over _what_?” Kajsa demanded, a hint of the _thu’um_ creeping into her voice. “Keeping Skyrim safe? Defeating the Thalmor? _Nowhere_ is safe from them, Ulfric. _Nowhere_.” Her voice leveled, but there was still the same sense of urgency. “We have _always_ been risking our lives; why are you acting as though we have never done that?”

“Because I spoke to Sorleigh,” Ulfric said flatly, his eyes flashing. “If the Thalmor truly are crossing into Skyrim, I want you _here_.” He sighed, the fury going out of him. “You are a queen now, Kajsa. At least try to act like one.”

“Then I will _try_ to be as diplomatic as I can, as befitting of a _queen_ ,” she said tightly, stepping up to him. “Tomorrow, Ronan Sorleigh and I are journeying up to Winterhold to seek out information from the College. We will be gone for two days. Then I will come back and I will be the queen you want me to be again. Does that please you?” The last four words were spat out.

“That _would_ please me,” Ulfric said quietly, coldly.

“Good,” she replied viciously, turning her back on him again. She crawled onto the bed and up to the headboard. Pulling the blankets up over herself, she wriggled out of her trousers and tossed them onto a nearby chair before snuffing out the candle on the nightstand. Lying back on her side, Kajsa closed her eyes and tried not to think about anything.

Somewhere in the dimly-lit room, she heard her husband getting out of his own clothes and placing them in the still-open wardrobe. His footsteps brushed over the floor and his side of the bed creaked as he lay down beside her and pulled her close to him, winding his arms around her once more.

Despite herself, she squirmed around to face him, leaning her head up against his chest. After sleeping in unfamiliar beds without anyone near her for the past few nights, she had missed his warmth, the way he held her at night. Even after all the time they’d been together, his touch still made her feel safer than anything else she knew.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Do you trust Ronan Sorleigh?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she said, relieved that the conversation had taken a different turn. “What do you think?”

“He seems honest enough, but appearances can be deceiving.”

 _Like his father proved._ Kajsa swallowed.

“Just be careful.” His finger traced the wound on her waist as he kissed the top of her head. “I do not want you to be harmed, Kajsa; you know that. And I feel much safer when I have you by my side.”

She snorted softly. “It’s just a trip to Winterhold. I’ll be fine, Ulfric.” _The real question is,_ she thought, _what will we discover there?_

_And will Ronan continue to be trustworthy?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations, admirably fudged with the help of [Thuum.org](https://www.thuum.org/):  
> • _Hi lost osos gelaarvon wah dreh,_ Kajsa. = You have some explaining to do, Kajsa.  
>  • _Drem, ahmul, drem._ = Patience, husband, patience.
> 
> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa arrive in Winterhold.


	8. Mind Over Matter

“ _This_ is Winterhold?” Ronan asked in disbelief, staring at the ramshackle settlement. There were maybe three or four buildings total — including what was presumably the inn and the jarl’s longhouse — and all the rest were destroyed: roofs caved in, walls collapsed, crumbling chimneys, splintered foundations covered in snow. In the distance, nearly hidden by the swirling snowflakes, a square, stone tower rose over all other buildings, mysterious and austere.

Kajsa nodded, slowing her horse down to a more leisurely pace. “Surprised?” she asked dryly.

“A little,” he confessed, following her lead and reining his own mount in. “I didn’t expect the damage from the Great Collapse to be this great... or even to still persist.”

Kajsa glanced at him with suspicion. “And here I thought you didn’t know much about Skyrim.”

Ronan chuckled wearily. _Always looking for a reason to distrust me..._ “That’s true; I don’t know much about this land and its customs. But I _do_ know Tamrielic history quite well.”

She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

Ronan sighed to himself. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night, having spent it lying awake in bed with a million thoughts and suppositions running through his head and keeping him from sleep — _much like the night before that,_ he thought wryly. When he did close his eyes, it was an easily disturbed, dreamless, unsatisfying sleep.

Admittedly, he’d felt better once he and Kajsa had gotten on the road; Windhelm had made him inexplicably nervous. It was very much a Nordic city, not to mention the home of the High King and Queen, and he’d felt like an interloper in more ways than one. And, if he was being honest with himself, _o_ _ne_ paranoid, moody ruler was enough for him; in many ways, Ulfric had made his wife seem tame.

 _They have their reasons for who they have become, Ronan._ Nocturnal’s voice startled him, nearly causing him to fall out of the saddle. _As do you._

Ronan nearly cursed out loud, but held his tongue. _Must_ _Y_ _ou always_... eavesdrop _on my thoughts like that?_ he demanded.

_Yes._

Kajsa looked over at him, frowning. “Is it Her again?” she asked exasperatedly.

Ronan nodded mutely.

“Just keep it to yourself.” Dismounting from her horse, a hardy-looking black stallion  with eyes that seemed to glow red in the dimming light, Kajsa looped the reins over a rail outside the inn and tied them off securely. “The College may be here, but that doesn’t mean they’re not wary of the Daedra — to say nothing about the townspeople.”

He nodded again. _Is that all I’m good for now? Agreeing?_ “Why are we stopping here? I thought that our destination was the College.” He gestured towards the half-hidden tower.

“We can’t get in unless we’re students — current or prospective — or teachers or accompanied by one of the two. I happen to know where we can find an escort.” She started up the low wooden steps towards the inn door. “Tie up your horse and follow me. And you might want to keep your hood up for the time being.”

 

“Well, well, well... if it isn’t our old Guildmaster, back on my doorstep again,” the wiry Bosmer in rumpled mage robes said with a sleazy grin. “Although I hear you’ve moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Better is debatable, but I can hardly complain.” Kajsa shook his hand. “How’s things, Enthir?”

Enthir waved her question away. “Don’t talk to me about business. Not without a good strong drink.”

“That’s not an option right now.”

“Pity,” he sighed, leaning back against the table and propping his elbows up on it. “Any luck with the tip I sent you? I figured you might want to know about a suspiciously uptight Altmer poking around the College.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. _Is he talking about Valmir?_

“Actually, that’s what we’re here about,” Kajsa said briskly. “We need to gain entrance to the College of Winterhold. I have a few things to discuss with the Arch-Mage.”

Enthir groaned. “Don’t talk to me about that woman either. She’s driving me insane.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “A month ago, she discovered that I was fencing stolen goods around the College, and she blackmailed me: she gets a cut — a rather _substantial_ cut — of my profits and she doesn’t go to the jarl.” He threw up his hands in exaggerated despair. “She’s ruining me!”

“How about your little skooma operation?”

“ _Two_ months ago,” Enthir growled. “I’m practically a pauper now! And ever since you recruited my nephew into your little cabal, there’s been no one to help me out!”

“Finn’s actually closer now,” Kajsa said. “A trip to Winterhold from Windhelm is much shorter than the trip from Dawnstar. And to be fair, it’s not as though he did much in Winterhold besides drinking and whoring, let alone keeping your business running.”

“At least he wasn’t doing runs across the Dominion’s borders,” Enthir grumbled, but all the irritation had gone out of him. “He’s in more danger now than he ever was when he just ran with the Brotherhood.”

“You underestimate your nephew’s abilities, Enthir,” Kajsa said simply. “Now, are you going to secure us an audience with the Arch-Mage or not?”

“‘Us’?” Enthir craned his head to get a better look at the still-hooded Ronan, and his orange eyes narrowed. “Who’s he?”

 _He was one of Gallus’s dearest friend_ _s —_ _and he was the first to know of Mercer’s crimes against the Guild,_ Nocturnal whispered. _He helped Karliah to flee after Gallus’s murder, and he has never forgotten what your father did. He will know your face._

Swallowing hard, Ronan pushed back his hood. “My name is Ronan Sorleigh,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m with the High Rock Guild.”

Enthir was struck dumb with shock for a moment, then he glanced towards Kajsa for an explanation. “Guildmaster, I know you’re not blind. Surely you’ve noticed that –”

“Yes, he’s Mercer’s son,” Kajsa answered shortly. “That’s not relevant right now. What matters is you getting us into the College.”

Enthir glared in Ronan’s direction. “How do you know he isn’t going to stab you in the back like his da did to Gallus and Karliah – like he did to _you_?”

“She spared my life,” Ronan said firmly. “Betrayal is not how I’d want to repay her.”

Enthir chuckled. “Ah, a thief with scruples. They tend not to last long.” He sobered quickly.

“Can you get us into the College, Enthir?” Kajsa repeated, an edge to her voice.

Enthir sighed, running a hand through his red hair. “Yes, yes, whatever you want. If I know the Arch-Mage, she’s probably still awake at this hour anyway.” He stood up and started to walk towards the door of the inn, but not without a suspicious scowl towards Ronan. “Come on.”

The Dragonborn turned to follow him, and Ronan did the same — and ran into a heavyset blond Nord with bloodshot eyes.

“‘Ey!” the man slurred, pushing him away. “Watch where yer goin’!”

“My apologies,” Ronan said, but the Nord had already staggered off towards the seat that Enthir had vacated.

Ronan suddenly realized that there was something heavy in his left hand. Starting to walk towards the door, he surreptitiously opened his palm and gaped when he saw what it was: a ragged coin purse with a few septims jingling inside.

He frowned. _This isn’t mine._

 _No, it_ _is_ _not,_ Nocturnal agreed. _It belongs to the drunkard you just bumped into_ _._

Furrowing his brow, Ronan tried to think back to a few seconds ago, but much to his bafflement, he didn’t remember the actual act of pickpocketing: it was just a blank darkness in his mind.

Then it dawned on him. _It was_ _Y_ _ou!_

 _Pardon?_ Nocturnal asked, almost innocent.

Ronan gritted his teeth, pushing open the door and emerging outside into the freezing night air. _You_ _–_ _You_ influenced _me to steal from him! You took control of me!_

Much to his chagrin, She only laughed. _But is that not what thieves do?_ _Steal?_

_I didn’t want to steal from him. I wasn’t going to steal from him._

_You_ _a_ _re all too fond of helping people,_ Nocturnal said coolly. _What if I were to tell you that the man you just robbed is an alcoholic who will have no more drinks tonight because you took the last of his money? That he’ll leave Winterhold tomorrow to do something useful with his life instead of just drinking himself into an early grave?_

 _I’d say that_ _Y_ _ou’re lying to me,_ he retorted angrily, picking up his pace to catch up with Kajsa and Enthir.

Nocturnal sighed. _You still have a long way to go, Ronan, before you realize that things do not happen by mere chance. Fate is intervening in your future_ _—_ _and it will continue to do so for quite some time._

Ronan ignored Her, continuing to stomp through the snow, the coin purse still weighing heavily in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa gain an audience with the Arch-Mage.


	9. The Artifacts and the Arch-Mage

Trudging up the narrow flight of spiraling stairs, Ronan was embroiled in his bitter thoughts, barely noticing the hushed conversation of Kajsa and Enthir ahead of him. He’d been too preoccupied to even notice where they were going or that they were inside the College in the first place. What Nocturnal had made him do to the drunkard in the inn still weighed heavily on his mind.

 _If She can take control of me, if I’m no more than a pawn_ _—_ Her _paw_ _n —_ _is having Her favor really worth it?_ He continued to climb the stairs numbly, his feet feeling more and more like bags of bricks with every step. _Did She do this to Kajsa as well? Or is She just punishing me in place of my fa_ __—_ __Mercer?_

He wouldn’t lie; the recent revelations about Mercer Frey — the father he never knew about, the father that didn’t raise him — still disturbed him. But what made him most melancholy was the fact that there was no one to say a kind word about Frey: a man he was the very image of.

 _But that doesn’t mean I am wholly like him as well!_ he cried out mentally. _They judge my character through that of a dead man!_

 _As far as many are concerned, the apple does not fall far from the tree,_ Nocturnal said smoothly. _What they do not understand about you is the fact that you rolled away._

Enthir’s voice interrupted the conversation. “We’re here.”

Ronan finally looked up from his scuffed boots, and his breath caught in his throat. Ahead of the landing the three of them were on lay a circular chamber with a high vaulted ceiling illuminated by balls of magelight serenely bobbing in the air. In the center lay a small garden sheltered by a stone wall, blooming with alchemical herbs and fungi with a gnarled juniper tree towering over all other plants. Banners emblazoned with the sigil of the College hung on the walls, but as far as Ronan could see, it was very sparsely furnished.

An imperious female voice rang out from somewhere behind the garden wall. “You have five seconds to identify yourselves before I blast you into Oblivion.”

Ronan tensed, his hand going to one of the steel daggers at his side.

“Charming, isn’t she?” Enthir muttered before raising his voice. “It’s just me, Arch-Mage. I have some guests who wish to see you.”

“And this could not wait until morning?” the Arch-Mage demanded.

“No, it cannot,” Kajsa cut in coldly. “This is a rather urgent matter.”

The still unseen Arch-Mage heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well. I can always take a nap in the afternoon in lieu of my sleep tonight, I suppose, though it would be a terrible inconvenience.”

After a brief rustling of silk, a statuesque Altmer woman stepped out from behind the garden wall, tying up the front of a Cyrodilic-style dressing gown. Her pale blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her bony face displayed pointed cheekbones and a long, narrow nose. Traces of makeup were still evident around her slanted green eyes.

“Who have you brought me this time, Enthir?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and impatiently drumming her fingers on her forearm. “Do be polite and make introductions.”

Rolling his eyes, Enthir gestured to his companions with a slightly exaggerated wave of his hand. “I believe you are already familiar with Kajsa, but this is Ronan Sorleigh. May I present —” here, his hand flipped towards the Altmer “— Siladhiel Alassë, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold.”

“High Queen.” Siladhiel made a small, courtly curtsy; it struck Ronan as being unusually polite for an Altmer, especially towards a Nord. “As always, it is a pleasure to see you.” She scrutinized the other woman with pursed lips. “Have you shrunk since our last meeting? For a heroine of legend, you look rather short.”

“Everyone looks small to an Altmer,” Kajsa said wryly.

Siladhiel shrugged languidly. “Fair enough. You can leave now, Enthir,” she said pointedly, addressing Enthir. “Go disturb someone else’s sleep and leave me be.”

Enthir cleared his throat and flashed a charming smile. “Actually, Arch-Mage, I’ve been meaning to discuss your little tariff on my smuggling _—_ ”

A hissing, crackling ball of ice appeared over one of Siladhiel’s hands. “Get. Out. _Now._ ”

Smile wiped from his face, Enthir slunk out of the chamber.

Siladhiel clenched her hand over the ice, willing the spell away. “By Mora’s mandibles, I can only deal with that obnoxious, sleazy elf once a week,” she huffed. “Now, what was it that you wanted?”

Slinging the long bundle off of her back, Kajsa presented it to the other woman. “We have some artifacts that you might be interested in.”

“You had me at ‘artifacts.’” Eyes gleaming, Siladhiel gestured to a mostly-bare desk to one side of her quarters. “Put them over there and let me take a look at them.”

Both of them walked to the desk, Ronan trailing after them. Kajsa laid the bundle down and quickly unwrapped it, then stepped away.

Siladhiel peeled aside what remained of the cloth and lifted up Rahgot’s staff, running her fingers along the elaborate carvings. “I’ve seen this design before on more current destruction staves, but this particular one is quite a bit older,” she mused, her snappish manner gone. “I’d say it’s probably from the First Era at the earliest, but it’s quite well-preserved.” She glanced over her shoulder at Kajsa. “Where exactly did you find this?”

“A Nordic barrow called Forelhost on the edge of the Rift,” the other answered.

Siladhiel raised an eyebrow at the name. “I presume this is a Dragon Priest staff, then. Were you so kind as to bring the mask as well?”

Kajsa removed Rahgot’s mask from the wrappings and held it up, the dull metal barely catching a shine in the magelight. Putting down the staff, Siladhiel took it from her and ran her hand over it, her fingers glowing with the light of a spell that Ronan was not familiar with.

“It’s a very fine enchantment, I’ll give the Dragon Cult that,” Siladhiel muttered, a hint of envy in her tone. “It seems to increase the strength and fortitude of the bearer by quite a bit.”

“Really,” Kajsa said neutrally, but her eyes were dark with rumination.

For a brief moment, Ronan wondered what she was thinking, but he hastily willed the notion away. _I don’t want to see what’s inside her mind or anyone else’s,_ he said pointedly towards Nocturnal.

Nocturnal laughed, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck. _Never you fret, my Champion. It is far more convenient for me to raise questions than reveal the truth._

“Now, High Queen,” Siladhiel was saying, “what in Oblivion were you doing in the Rift delving into an ancient tomb in the first place? Last I checked, the Palace of the Kings was in Windhelm.”

Kajsa ignored the sarcasm. “Do you recall the Altmer who claimed to be a Dragon Cult scholar who was trying to get permission to access the Arcaneum a while ago? The one you, _and_ Enthir, wrote to me about?”

Siladhiel wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Unfortunately, yes. I remember that nosy little know-it-all — he never _did_ mention his name; have you found it out?”

“He told me that his name was Valmir,” Ronan said haltingly. “He was a Thalmor agent.”

Siladhiel glanced at him, raising her eyebrow a little further, and then looked back at Kajsa. “He’s another one of yours, I presume? You must have an army of them by now.”

 _Another one of_ _her_ _what?_ Ronan wanted to ask, but he kept quiet.

“Not precisely,” Kajsa corrected. “What he says is true, however. Valmir was looking to get into Forelhost to retrieve the artifacts, and Sorleigh was sent to help him do it.”

“Do you know why?” Siladhiel asked, all haughtiness gone.

“Not yet,” Kajsa admitted. “But... this is a disturbing development, all the same.”

“I’ll say.” Siladhiel gingerly placed Rahgot’s mask back on the desk, as if it were a coiled snake that she feared would strike at her. “Wait here. I have something that I think would interest you.” With that, she turned around and vanished back behind the garden wall.

After some quiet, but creative cursing, the click of a lock opening, and a protesting squeak of hinges, Siladhiel re-emerged with something cradled in her arms. As she drew closer, Ronan saw what it was with a start: a Dragon Priest mask, this one made out of some silvery-blue metal.

Kajsa noticed it too. “A Dragon Priest mask? Where did you get that?”

“Morokei.” Despite the harsh, guttural sound of the name, Siladhiel pronounced it precisely. “Found in Labyrinthian: another overly large Nordic barrow that the Thalmor were unusually interested in.”

Some of the color drained out of Kajsa’s cheeks. “You mean to say that this has happened before with another tomb, another Dragon Priest?”

“That’s what I’m getting at, yes.” Siladhiel’s tone lost its sarcasm as she sobered. “But the mask was only a secondary prize. The Thalmor were after something else.”

“There’s a story behind this, I take it,” Kajsa commented.

“Mora’s mammaries, of _course_ there is!” Siladhiel exclaimed with an emphatic sigh. “In fact, it might just be easier to explain it to you from the beginning.”

“That would be best,” Kajsa said dryly, crossing her arms.

Siladhiel placed Morokei’s mask on the table and then turned to face them again to begin her story. “During my third year here, the College was excavating a Nordic ruin nearby Winterhold called Saarthal. I don’t suppose either of you know what that is,” she added with a disdainful sniff.

“One of the first human settlements in Skyrim,” Ronan answered, recalling the name from lessons long-ago. “It was built by the first Nords from Atmora during the Merethic Era, but it was sacked by the Snow Elves during the Night of Tears.”

“Ah, a historian.” He thought Siladhiel looked slightly impressed, but that might have been wishful thinking. “Have you read the rather foreboding _Night of Tears_ by Dranor Seleth, by chance?”

“Yes, but it’s been a while,” Ronan said hesitantly. “Is that where Seleth puts forward his theory that Saarthal was razed because the elves discovered that the Nords had found — _something?_ Some object of great power that they attempted to keep hidden?”

“Well, Seleth had that much right.” Siladhiel’s tone was wry, but her countenance was grave. “We discovered ‘something’ all right: an exceedingly strange orb with even stranger markings, floating in the very heart of the site.

“The Eye of Magnus, as we came to call it, baffled all enquiry. Tolfdir, our Senior Enchanter, examined the script when it was brought back to the College; he said it resembled no other alphabet he’d ever seen. Consultation with Urag proved mostly fruitless, as there was no way to determine its origin or how old it could possibly be.

“But then —” she sighed heavily “— there were complications. And one of them was named Ancano.” Siladhiel spat the name as if it were poison.

“Who’s Ancano?” Ronan asked, puzzled.

“An advisor to the my predecessor as Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, but it was suspected — and rightfully so — that he had ties to the Dominion.” She shrugged tightly. “He did, and we all payed dearly for our inaction.”

“How did you know he was with the Dominion?” The question was out of the Breton’s mouth before he could stop it.

Siladhiel fixed him with a cool stare. “Let me think. For starters, he paraded around the College in Justiciar robes and talked of the ‘superiority of the Thalmor.’ He attempted to draw power from the Eye of Magnus, tearing rifts in Mundus, unleashing magical anomalies, _and_ killing the Arch-Mage in the process. He tried to have _me_ killed when I went to Labyrinthian to fetch the only artifact that could have possibly contained the staff.” She huffed. “Oh, and once upon a time before I was disowned and exiled from Alinor, I was engaged to the bastard, so I should think that I knew he was a high-level operative with the Dominion.”

Ronan flushed at her vitriolic response.

“Let’s go back to Labyrinthian for a moment,” Kajsa cut in before he could apologize for his rudeness. “What was the artifact that could contain the Eye?”

“The Staff of Magnus, an incredibly powerful staff that was in the possession of a certain Dragon Priest.” Siladhiel tapped Morokei’s mask. “I wish I could show it to you, but it was unfortunately destroyed when I neutralized the Eye.”

“And you say the Thalmor had interest in it?”

“Not to mention the mask,” Siladhiel reminded. “The assassin that Ancano sent said as much. I would have inquired as to what the Thalmor wanted a bloody mask for, but I was a little busy dodging lightning bolts to ask.”

Kajsa looked grim. “Then the Thalmor have been at this longer than I ever imagined.” She pointed towards Rahgot’s staff and mask. “Can you keep these safe?”

Siladhiel nodded, folding the wrapping over them and Morokei’s mask. “I’ll see if I can get Urag and Phineus to put some more security around the College, and I’ll talk to Tolfdir and Faralda about maintaining the entry procedures. No Thalmor is going to get their hands on these.”

“Excellent. Thank you for your aid, as always.” Kajsa turned and started to walk out. “And you really should consider letting up on Enthir a little. We are, after all, all on the same side.”

Siladhiel snorted. “As long as that nephew of his keeps his philandering and poor life decisions _off_ College grounds, I’ll be happy to.” She secured the bundle and gathered it up in her arms.

Ronan lingered for a moment. “Arch-Mage, if you don’t mind my asking... what happened to Ancano and the Eye?”

“Ancano’s dead,” Siladhiel said crisply. “As for the Eye... well, it’s not on Mundus any more, and we’re all better off for it.” Her face was drawn and stiff. “It’s a shame that we weren’t able to study it more, but I dread to think what the Dominion would have done with it.”

 

“How do you know she can be trusted?” Ronan asked once he and Kajsa had left the College courtyard.

“Because I know her,” Kajsa stated, starting off across the worn, ice-covered bridge. “I’ve aided her in the past and we’ve corresponded for quite some time. I trust Siladhiel to keep secrets.”

“But – aren’t you worried? I mean... she _is_ an Alt _—_ ” He abruptly shut his mouth before he could say the rest of his sentence, but it was too late.

Kajsa turned her head to glare at him. “Just as all Nords did not support my husband and his Stormcloaks, not all Altmer support the Dominion. And I should think that you should know better than to judge based on appearances.”

Ronan swallowed at the stinging retort.

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Pulling her hood up over her head, Kajsa continued down the treacherous path. “I should know that much.”

Ronan followed her in silence, almost afraid to speak out of turn. Then: “What did she mean when she asked you if I was ‘another one of yours’?”

“She thought you were one of my spies.”

Ronan blinked. “Spies?”

“Yes, spies.” They had descended from the bridge and were passing under the archway of the tower at its foot. “My husband takes care of more local affairs while I take care of diplomatic relations and intelligence, with Yusef's aid. It’s proved rather advantageous to have eyes in other provinces and countries — especially in the Dominion’s territory,” she finished darkly.

Ronan’s feet hit the snow blanketing the road running through Winterhold and he shivered, despite his boots and the woolen socks inside them. He peered down the road towards the inn; Kajsa's horse was still tied up outside, but he couldn't see his own.

“Is that how you know about the Thalmor’s dealings in Skyrim?” he asked, squinting through the falling snowflakes in the air. “Do you have any idea what they’re trying to do?”

Kajsa turned her head to answer, but her eyes widened in alarm. “Behind you!”

“Wha —?” He whipped around — just as he was knocked to the ground by a dark, hulking mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa realize that there's a "vampire menace" in Skyrim.


	10. Under Attack

The paws, black as night and tipped with razor-sharp claws, were the first thing that struck him. Ronan felt the breath yanked from his lungs as he fell back on the snowy ground. The hound leapt on his chest with a snarl, spittle dripping from its snaggle-toothed maw and red eyes glowing in the dark.

He flung out one hand in front of him to try and stave off the hound — or whatever it was — from his throat, gritting his teeth as he felt his shoulder being forced back with the effort. The other hand desperately scrabbled for one of his daggers. _Come on, come on —_ please _let it be here —_

The hound-thing snarled, lunging forward again, and Ronan brought his weapon up and drove it into the beast’s stomach. Letting out a whining growl, the hound collapsed on top of him as it died; Ronan gasped for breath as the weight of it collided with him.

He flailed in the snow for a moment and succeeded in wriggling out from underneath it, yanking his dagger out as he staggered to his feet, frantically looking around. _Where in Oblivion did that thing come from?_

“ _ZUN — HAAL VIIK!”_

His head swiveled towards the source of the cry, still brandishing his weapon. Kajsa had her own blade out, stabbing a shambling bandit dressed in furs; he disintegrated into ashes almost instantly.

Lowering her sword, Kajsa glanced over at him. “You all right?” she asked brusquely.

Ronan was about to answer when he saw a shadowy figure flit out from a wrecked homestead behind her. “Look out!”

Kajsa spun around, her blade flashing in a wide arc around her. Her new attacker — a stocky bearded man with pale, filthy skin and blazing orange eyes — snarled as he leaped back, summoning a sinister-looking crimson spell in one hand and aiming it towards her. Kajsa charged forward, but he dodged, slashing out at her with the steel sword he gripped in one hand. It caught her in the arm, slicing through her leather armor.

Kajsa cursed through gritted teeth. Switching her blade to her other hand, she drew a silver dagger from a sheath at her belt and brought it back to throw it at him.

Suddenly, her opponent stiffened, his sword falling from his grasp and the spell in his hand snuffing out. Letting out a choking gurgle, Kajsa’s attacker dropped to the snowy ground; unlike the bandit before him, his body did not turn into ash.

Ronan blinked at the sight of the oddly short arrow protruding from the man’s back where it had run him through. _Who fired that?_

A gruff, rumbling voice came from behind him. “Nice work, boy.”

Turning around, he saw a tall, broad-chested Orc with graying hair gathered into a topknot, wearing armor that Ronan had never seen before: a leather coat underneath a buckled, belted vest reinforced with steel plates, along with sturdy boots and gauntlets. A war axe with a strangely curved blade was tucked into his belt, and he held something that could be best described as a stubby, mechanical bow made of wood and steel; its utilitarian design reminded Ronan of a Dwemer mechanism.

“Thank you,” he said finally, finding his voice. “Erm... good shot.” Ronan gestured awkwardly back towards the dead man on the ground.

The Orc chuckled humorlessly. “Just have to fire before they do.” He slung the odd bow onto his back, then turned to address Kajsa. “You’re not bad with a blade yourself. The Dawnguard could use more warriors like you.”

“I’m a bit busy ruling Skyrim at the moment,” Kajsa said wryly, sheathing her sword and summoning a restoration spell to mend the cut on her arm. “Besides, I’m used to my opponents being slower than me.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he bowed his head slightly. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your swordsmanship, High Queen.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “Who are you? And what’s the Dawnguard?”

“We’re vampire hunters. We search out and destroy those bloodsucking scum wherever we find them.” The Orc jabbed a thumb in the direction of the dead man — _vampire,_ Ronan corrected himself. “As for me, I’m Durak. I’m out recruiting anyone who wants to fight with the Dawnguard against the vampire menace.”

“I haven’t noticed any ‘vampire menace,’” Ronan said hesitantly.

“I’d have to agree with him,” Kajsa said coolly. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Durak snorted. “Then you aren’t paying attention, _High Queen,_ like most everyone else around here.” Despite his caustic tone, he sobered. “A night ago, the Hall of the Vigilants was destroyed by vampires. _They_ never took the threat seriously, and now they’ve paid the price.”

Kajsa frowned. “Truly? The Vigil is wiped out?”

“I witnessed the destruction they left behind at the Hall. I’ve been tracking some of the bloodsuckers who perpetrated the attack, and one of them decided he’d try and throw me off by heading up to Winterhold.” He shrugged tightly. “You know the rest.”

Kajsa’s countenance was bleak. “My husband should be informed of this. I hope you do not object to accompanying my companion and I back to Windhelm; we’ll need your testimony.” Her voice was colder than the night air.

“Hold there, Orc.” A helmeted guard holding a torch aloft approached them before Durak could answer. “What’s going on here?”

“Vampire attack,” Durak said shortly. “I’d suggest you make sure that the townspeople get inside and lock their doors.”

“Vampires?” Despite the fact that his face was hidden, Ronan could almost hear the guard’s eyes bugging out. “By Talos, what are we going to do?”

By now, other guards had clustered around the corpses of the vampire and the hound, murmuring fearfully to each other. Some townspeople exiting the tavern stopped in their tracks to stare in horror at the scene.

“I’ll tell you what you can do.” Durak turned to the small crowd, raising his voice. “You can join the Dawnguard and help defend your homeland against these monsters.” He smiled grimly. “Prayers won’t make them die, but a few well-placed bolts definitely will.”

A long silence hung in the air after his words. A few guards glanced at each other, but neither of them made to move forward.

“I’ll do it.” A heavyset, blond Nord man elbowed his way to the front of the crowd of tavern-goers. “I’ll come with you and help you kill the bastards.”

Ronan suppressed a gasp. _That’s him! The man Nocturnal had me pickpocket!_

“Ranmir!” the young woman in the worn yellow dress next to him hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Doing something with my life, like you’ve always wanted me to do,” Ranmir said acidly, his syllables slightly slurred. “Got no money, no prospects up in this shithole of a town — so why in Oblivion _not_ , Birna? Tell me _that_.”

Birna’s face fell. “Please, brother,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Ignoring her, her brother swaggered forward towards Durak. “So, what do you think? Is the Dawnguard willing to take me?”

Durak examined him with a critical eye. Then: “I think Isran can make some use of you. Just lay off the drink and you’ll be fine.”

Ronan felt a chill seep through him as Nocturnal’s words echoed in his mind again. _You knew this would happen,_ he accused silently.

 _Oh, he was going to leave Winterhold at some point or another,_ Nocturnal purred. _I — excuse me,_ you  _— just gave him a little incentive._

Ronan swallowed.

_I am not wholly malevolent, Ronan, despite what you may think of me. I just have unorthodox ways of going about things. But now that you have met Durak... well, the pieces can start falling into place._

“The pieces of what?” he muttered.

As he expected, Ronan did not receive an answer.

 

“With all due respect, High King, I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of the situation.” The woman’s hard voice rang out in the still of the throne room. “The Vigil is all but wiped out and the Hall is destroyed. We need —”

“— aid in hunting down the vampires who attacked your comrades; I heard you before, Vigilant,” Ulfric said coolly. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that stamping out Daedra worship and hunting the undead was what the Vigil did.”

“It would appear that the High King has already heard of what’s transpired,” Durak muttered to Kajsa, letting the tall bronze door fall shut behind him.

“Apparently,” Kajsa agreed neutrally, beginning the long walk down the hall with Durak beside her; after a pause, Ronan and Ranmir followed. “You didn’t mention that there were survivors.”

“That’s because I didn’t think there were any. The Vigil was always a soft bunch; they couldn’t have hoped to stand up to an attack of this magnitude,” Durak scoffed.

Upon hearing their approach, the woman standing before the throne turned around. She was a Breton, with long blonde hair pulled back from her round face in a tight plait and eyes like chips of ice. Raw, scarring slashes ran over her nose and mouth, marring her face, and there were bandages around her hands. Her robes were dirty and torn, and the steel mace hanging at her side looked suspiciously bloodstained.

“Vigilant Cadarn,” Durak stated flatly. “Somehow, I find it easy to believe that you made it out. Your blood too bitter for the vampires?”

 _Most likely._ Nocturnal laughed to Herself, quiet and unsettling. _When a person is consumed with hatred for too long a time, it starts to become part of who they are._

 _Like Mercer?_ Ronan asked hesitantly.

 _Like your father,_  She agreed. _But the hatred of Vigilant Fenella Cadarn has nothing to do with jealousy_ _or greed_ _._

He was about to ask what Nocturnal meant by that, but Fenella cut into his thoughts. “Have you come to gloat, Durak?” she snarled. “Come to dance on the graves of my brothers and sisters — of my _mother_?”

“It’s a shame about Keeper Carcette, Fen,” Durak conceded gruffly, “but it was bound to happen. You Vigilants were never prepared for this.”

“Because we are not like the beasts we hunt,” the Vigilant spat. “Stendarr and His Vigil stand for mercy — and Isran and his lot are godless, remorseless animals. I’ve heard the stories of _his_ time with the Vigil, and they’re enough to make even the strongest heart quail.”

“Yet look who’s survived,” Durak said sardonically. “Not the Vigil, that’s for damn sure.”

Ulfric interjected before Fenella could retort. “And who might you be?”

Durak stepped forward, inclining his head briefly. “Durak. I’m recruiting anyone who wants to fight the vampire menace alongside the Dawnguard. I saw the aftermath of the attack on the Hall of the Vigilant, and I was up in Winterhold tracking one of the bloodsuckers who did it.”

Ulfric’s eyes flitted to Kajsa before he turned his attention back to Durak. “Vampire hunters, you say? I expect you’re here looking for potential recruits.”

“The Dawnguard needs all the men and women it can get,” Durak answered.

“I’d advise that you speak to my Captain of the Guard, Ralof. He might have some names for you.” Ulfric waved his hand towards a door at the far end of the main hall. “He should be in the barracks.”

Fenella was aghast. “So you’re willing to give men to these — these _barbarians_ and not lend any to one who is in need of men?”

“The guards are well-trained, but they are not prepared to face something as dangerous as a vampire,” Kajsa cut in, stepping forward, “whereas training people to hunt and kill vampires is what the Dawnguard does. My husband and I are not willing to lose good men to something they can’t possibly fight as they are.”

Fenella’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. If you will not aid me, _High King_ —” she glared at Ulfric “— then I will seek help elsewhere.”

“That would be best,” Ulfric stated tightly, his eyes hard.

Without bowing, Fenella shouldered her way past Ronan and the others and made her way to one of the doors. She yanked it open and vanished into the night before it closed behind her.

Durak was the first to break the still. “I’ll see what this Captain has to offer me, then.” He turned around, clapping Ronan on the shoulder. “Change your mind about joining, boy?”

Ronan shook his head. For the entire ride back from Winterhold, Durak had been trying to recruit him; he’d demurred multiple times. “Thank you, but my fighting skills aren’t exactly up to par to fight vampires.”

“That’s the whole point of Dawnguard training,” Durak said, chuckling. “If you ever change your mind, boy, go to the old fort in Dayspring Canyon, southeast of Riften, and talk to Isran.”

“I — I’ll keep it in mind,” Ronan conceded reluctantly.

Durak nodded approvingly. “I’ll see you there, then.” He started towards the door to the barracks; after a pause, Ranmir tore his eyes from the bottles of mead on the table and followed him.

As soon as they’d left, Ulfric stood and descended from his throne. “You have an eerie sense of timing, Kajsa.”

“I thought you needed a little help, so I swooped in to the rescue,” Kajsa said wryly.

Ulfric smiled, shaking his head, but it only lasted for a moment before he frowned. “Were you indeed attacked by vampires in Winterhold?”

Kajsa shrugged. “Well, it was only _o_ _ne_ vampire...”

Ulfric’s mouth tightened. “Kajsa —”

“Can the haranguing wait until we’re somewhere less public?” she interrupted, glancing at Ronan.

“Of course,” Ulfric said after a moment, turning towards the door to the war room. “I will be waiting for you — _ol unstiid_.” With that, he walked away and disappeared into the adjoining chamber.

Sighing, Kajsa faced Ronan. “I trust you know where the room you stayed in last time was at?”

Ronan chewed his lip. “Actually, if — if you have no more need of me, I — I was thinking I might as well leave.”

Her face remained largely impassive, but something akin to concern flickered in her eyes. “Where will you go, then?” she asked coolly. “Back to Daggerfall?”

Ronan swallowed. He had no desire to go back to High Rock and the house that could never be a home again, back to the Guild with his failure hanging over him, back to Jolaine: the woman who’d lied to him, the woman he’d loved.

_I can’t go back to the way things used to be. Now that I know..._

“No,” he finally said. “I — I can’t go back.” Even though he didn’t say the words, it felt as though he was admitting that he was lost, that he had nowhere to turn.

Kajsa smiled, but it was rueful and bitter. “Then you go forward.”

 

“You need a ride?” The cart’s driver, bundled up in a thick fur cloak against the snow filling the night air, squinted down at him through the storm. “I can take you to any of the hold capitals for a price.”

Ronan hesitated, his fingers clenching around Ranmir’s coin purse as if it would help steel his resolve. He still had no idea what he was going to do, but at least he knew where he was headed.

“How much to go to Riften?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan receives counsel — and runs into trouble — in Riften.


	11. Intrusions

Nearly hidden by yellowed grass and sparse shrubs, the cave loomed before him, craggy and foreboding. To one side was a single slender birch tree, gleaming in the faint moonslight of the evening, and to the other was a squat stone obelisk carved with a relief of a bird with its wings outstretched and curving around a full moon. Both showed where to look, but only one gave a clue to what the enlightened might find inside.

Standing before the entrance to Nightingale Hall, Ronan could not help but feel some trepidation, even a little anxiety. He knew that this was where he wanted to go — after he’d gotten off the cart at the Riften stables, he’d chosen to walk in this direction rather than enter the city — but at the same time, he was questioning whether or not this was truly a wise idea.

 _You wanted to find out more about Nocturnal, about the Nightingales, about Mercer... and this is the place to get the answers to those questions,_ he chided himself. _Brynjolf and Karliah know who you are; you don’t have anything to fear from them._

Yet as he took a single, tentative step forward, and then another and another, Ronan wondered if he should really be here all the same.

 

Karliah was seated in a wooden chair in one of the back corners of the Hall, reading a book propped up on her lap, but she looked up when Ronan approached. Fear flashed across her face at first, and Ronan swallowed and nearly took a step back, but she relaxed just as quickly.

“Ronan,” she greeted him, closing her book. “What brings you back to Nightingale Hall? I thought you were with Kajsa.” Her tone was relieved, but her eyes were still wary.

“We parted ways after we returned from Winterhold.”

She nodded. “How was the trip?”

He shrugged uncertainly. “I don’t really know if it was fruitful or not; most of what the High Queen and the Arch-Mage spoke of flew right over my head. Must be nice to be in the loop,” he added, smiling.

Karliah smiled slightly as well, the last of the tension leaving her body. “Conversations with Kajsa sometime have that tendency.”

Ronan laughed to himself, but sobered slightly. “Are the High King and Queen always... the way they are?” he finished, not really knowing how to express it. “From what I’ve seen, it doesn’t really seem like they have a good relationship.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “It may not seem as such, but Kajsa and Ulfric are very much in love with each other. They just have strange ways of showing it.” Karliah motioned to one of the neatly made beds nearby. “Why don’t you sit down? If you’re coming from Windhelm, I imagine you must be tired.”

“Thank you, but I actually wanted to talk to you or Brynjolf.” Ronan settled himself into the makeshift seat. “About... you know...” His voice trailed off. “Things.”

Karliah sighed quietly. “Yes, I imagine you would.” She straightened up in her seat. “What would you like to talk about?”

“The Nightingales.” He shifted his feet around on the cave floor uncomfortably. “I’ve heard the stories; I think every thief has. But... I want to know the truth.”

Karliah folded her hands over her book.  “Put very simply, the Nightingales are a trio of thieves — highly skilled ones — who serve Nocturnal. In return for protecting the Twilight Sepulcher and the power that lies within, they are granted gifts by Her.”

“What kind of gifts? Gifts like hearing Nocturnal’s voice in your mind?” Ronan asked sardonically.

She shook her head. “No, not quite. Within the Trinity, each Nightingale has their own unique abilities. I am the Agent of Stealth, and when I choose, I can become as one with the shadows: unable to be seen or heard. Brynjolf is the Agent of Subterfuge, and as such, he can convince and persuade people of whatever he wishes them to believe. And Kajsa is the Agent of Strife, and her gifts allow her to quickly put an end to whomever crosses her path.”

“It seems like the Agent of Strife is more suited to being an assassin and murderer than a thief,” Ronan mused, but he paused when he saw Karliah’s stricken face. “I — I’m sorry,” he managed. “I didn’t mean to bring up Mercer —”

“Ronan, why else are you here if not to bring up Mercer?” Karliah said wearily, her countenance still drawn and pained. “You seem like you already know plenty about the Nightingales from the bits and pieces we’ve told you already — but not about _him_.”

Ronan swallowed. “I — I actually didn’t want to ask you about that. I know it must be painful for you, so —” Realizing what he must sound like, he abruptly arose from the bed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back.”

“Sit down, Ronan,” she said softly.

He slowly sat back down, despite the sudden feeling that he was unwelcome here.

Karliah smiled sadly. “You may resemble him in appearance, but not in character.”

“Yet others see my face and they don’t bother to look past it,” he pointed out irritably.

“I know, and I apologize. The blame for Mercer’s actions falls to him and him alone, not to you. I should have learned that by now.”

“Is he really that hated?” Ronan asked, dismayed. “Almost everyone I’ve talked to or met that knew him... they are less than kind to me.”

Karliah sighed. “Mercer touched many lives, and very few were in beneficial ways. He betrayed the Guild’s trust and stole from them, he broke his Oath to Nocturnal, and he did grievous harm to Kajsa and me.”

“And he didn’t even know or care that he had a son,” Ronan finished bitterly. _I never even knew him, but... I can’t help judging him along with everyone else._

There was a silence for a moment. Ronan found himself fidgeting with his fingers, suddenly nervous for what was to come.

Karliah broke the still. “I’ve been doing some reading about Nocturnal and Her connections to the Trinity, and I can’t find anything about your... _circumstance_.” She leaned back in her seat, arms draped over the armrests; it struck Ronan how tired she looked. “Has she spoken to you since you were here last?”

“Yes. Numerous times. And —” he paused, unsure of whether or not to tell her “— She controlled me. She made me pickpocket someone without even realizing that I did it.”

Karliah frowned. “That is... certainly unusual. None of us can hope to fathom Nocturnal’s whims and motives, but —”

“Can She look into the future?” Ronan interrupted.

A pause. Then: “I believe that all Daedric Princes have some sense of things to come, but as far as I know, only Hermaeus Mora can predict the future directly. Nocturnal’s realm is that of luck and, to a lesser extent, what one might call coincidences.”

“So She... _pushes_ people towards a course through manipulation of their luck?”

Karliah nodded. “That’s one way to put it, yes.” Her fingers tapped the cover of her book idly. “Speaking of courses... where will you go after this conversation is ended? Do you think you will stay in Skyrim?”

“Possibly,” he admitted, looking down at his boots. “I — I don’t really want to return to Daggerfall. There’s just — I — I don’t think it’s where I’m meant to be anymore.”

“And where do you think you _are_ meant to be?” she inquired gently.

“That’s the thing; I don’t know.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that I could stay in Riften and join the Guild here?”

“It might.” Karliah’s face was full of sympathy. “Brynjolf and I can try to talk to the others, but... I think the wounds left by Mercer are still not yet closed. The Guild may not listen to reason.” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than our scorn.”

“No — no, I understand,” Ronan tried to reassure her, even as his heart sunk. “I’ll find some way. Somehow.”

She nodded sadly. “I hope you will, Ronan. I certainly hope so.”

 

Sitting slouched at the bar counter with his elbows propped up on it, Ronan couldn’t focus on any particular thought. It seemed as though he was in a mental fog: leaving Nightingale Hall with a heavier heart than he started with, slipping into Riften, walking into the Bee and Barb with all of his thoughts slowly slipping away from him. He’d ordered some Cyrodilic brandy, but the bottle still sat in front of him, untouched and unopened; he hadn’t bothered to order any food, knowing that he probably wouldn’t eat any.

 _What else were you expecting?_ he questioned, almost angrily. _The Guild would never have taken you in, no matter how good of a thief you are. And now here you are, stranded in Skyrim with no idea of where in Oblivion to go._

Ronan sighed irritably and focused on the suddenly tempting brandy bottle ahead of him. _Maybe some alcohol is what I need after all..._

A dry, smooth voice wormed its way into his thoughts. “What’s got you down, handsome?”

He turned his head. A tall, wiry Bosmer was sitting on the barstool next to him, leaning back against the counter behind him. His ginger, shoulder-length hair contrasted with his nut-brown skin and gleaming amber eyes. The stubble on his chin did little to hide the long scar running down one side of his angular face; combined with his loose-fitting shirt open at the collar, tight vest and breeches, and high boots, it gave him a bit of a rakish look.

Ronan swallowed uncomfortably, not at all getting a good feeling about this encounter. “None of your business,” he snapped with all the gruffness he could manage, glaring for good measure.

The Bosmer chuckled. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, gorgeous. It hurts my feelings.” He leaned over, tracing the label of the brandy bottle with one thin finger. “You look like you need something a little stronger than that.”

“This is fine for me,” Ronan said tightly, inching to the side of his stool furthest from the pesky stranger and reaching for the bottle.

“I think you’re more than fine for me,” the other purred, leaning even further until his upper body was practically draped over the counter. “Sure you don’t need any help... _relaxing_?”

Ronan blinked. “Are you — _propositioning_ me?” he managed.

The Bosmer grinned. “Dibella’s tits, handsome, what else did you think I was doing?” He produced a small corked vial from a pouch on his belt, uncorked it, and downed the contents.

“Other than trying to sell me skooma?” Ronan said suspiciously, eying the empty vial. “Or being nosy?”

The other clasped his hand to his chest in a mock-dramatic gesture. “You wound me, Sorleigh. Here I am, trying to help you out, and what do I get for my efforts? An empty purse and a cold, lonely bed.” He sighed, rolling the vial between his fingers. “And I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but that really boils my balls.”

Ronan frowned. “How do you know my name?” he demanded. “And who in Oblivion are you, anyway?”

“Name’s Finverior: jack of all trades, master of the more illegal ones.” He swiveled his body around on the bar stool so that he mimicked the other’s position. “And I’ve been busting my ass trying to find you.”

“Why are you —?” He froze suddenly when Finverior draped an arm over his shoulders and leaned in again until his mouth was by his ear.

“Don’t look now,” Finverior whispered, “but see that Altmer at the table over there? He’s here to kill you.”

Despite the warning, Ronan twisted his head slightly to glance to his side. There was indeed an Altmer seated at a table in the far corner of the bar, clad in hooded black mage’s robes and dining on some fish and stew with a slightly sour expression on his face.

Finverior groaned. “Dammit, Sorleigh, what part of ‘don’t look now’ do you not fucking understand?” he hissed.

“At least you’re not calling me ‘handsome’ anymore,” Ronan muttered.

“There’s still time for me to find a better nickname,” Finverior reminded with a smirk. “Now listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. We’re going to leave the bar and go upstairs, and our pal over there is going to follow us. Once we get into my room, we can easily get rid of him. What do you say?”

“Why should I go with you?” Ronan asked through gritted teeth. “You hit on me and tried to sell me skooma! For all I know, you could be in league with this assassin!”

Finverior sighed again. “Look, sweet cheeks, I’m not going to ask you to trust me, because frankly, I’m the last guy _I’d_ want to trust. Just — just go along with it.”

Before Ronan could retort, Finverior’s arm tightened around his shoulders and his hand pressed hard in the center of Ronan’s chest. Ronan became uncomfortably aware of the warmth and proximity of the other’s body.

Suddenly, Finverior’s lips pressed against his cheek, and Ronan jerked away. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, flushing bright red.

“Pretending I’m drunk.” Finverior’s head slid down to rest on the other’s shoulder as he nuzzled Ronan’s neck.

“And here I thought you were just reacting to the skooma,” Ronan commented, his words coming out more sarcastic than intended.

Finverior snorted. “Cute. Now haul me upstairs before I throw you over my shoulder and do the same to you.”

Tightening his jaw, Ronan wrapped an arm around the other to support him and then slipped off of the barstool as best he could without dropping Finverior. He started towards the stairs, weaving his way through the crowded tables and bustle of people while dragging Finverior behind him.

 _Do you know anything about_ _this — this elf_ _?_ he asked Nocturnal tentatively. _Did he know Mercer as well?_

There was no answer.

 _What’s the point of having a Daedric Prince in my head if I can’t talk to Her_ _—_ _or Him_ _—_ _or whatever gender they_ _choose to present as_ _?_ Ronan thought irritably before hoping desperately that Nocturnal didn’t hear that.

“Hey, darling,” Finverior said, his speech slightly slurred, “you got any lock picks? Because I want to play with your chest.” He winked broadly.

The other felt blood rushing into his face as some nearby patrons glanced in their direction, but quickly turned his head from them as he saw that one of them was the Altmer that Finverior had pointed out earlier. _Well, if he wasn’t spying on me already, he’s definitely looking now,_ Ronan thought sourly.

After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the stairs. Ronan took a deep breath to brace himself and started up, Finverior like a deadweight on his arm.

“I don’t suppose it would be too much to ask for you to walk now,” he muttered.

Finverior grinned up at him, all pretense of being intoxicated dropped. “It isn’t every day a dark, handsome man carries me to my room. I’d like to relish this moment.”

“Your... _ruse_ worked and now we’re out of the bar,” Ronan retorted, feeling what little patience he had wearing thinner by the minute. “You can walk on your own.”

Finverior sighed reluctantly, but untangled himself from Ronan. “And here I thought we were having a moment.” He continued up the stairs, slapping the other on the rear as he passed. “Move that ass, sunshine. We don’t have all night.”

Stiffly ascending the stairs, Ronan found himself on the upper floor of the Bee and Barb: a small central hall with doors into private rooms all along the walls. One of the doors was open, and he approached it and entered. There was only a single bed and a tiny nightstand with a threadbare rug on the floor and a wardrobe against the far wall, but no sign of anyone.

Ronan frowned. _Where’d Finverior go?_

Suddenly, he felt something sharp and cold pressing into the small of his back and he froze in place.

“Do not make a sound,” the Altmer commanded in an imperious voice. “Raise your hands and turn around slowly.”

Ronan obeyed, his throat tightening. Behind him, the assassin, his eyes gleaming in dark triumph, held a conjured blade with the tip just brushing the center of his stomach.

Ronan felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him suddenly cold. _I’ve been set up._

The Altmer laughed coldly. “No one escapes the Dominion, Ronan Sorleigh.” He pressed the sword in a little further. “Know that you have died so that we may rule.”

Suddenly, steel flashed through the air and Ronan jerked back to avoid the dagger as it hurtled through the air and drove through the assassin’s throat. The conjured blade vanished as the Altmer, face contorted in shock, fell back on the wooden floorboards with a thud.

Finverior squeezed himself out from the gap between the wardrobe and the wall, and then immediately grabbed the body of the assassin and hauled it inside. “A thank-you might be nice, sweetheart, but that can wait until you close the door.”

A still-shaken Ronan hastily did so, dragging the nightstand over to barricade the entrance; he noticed the messy blood trail with some discouragement. “Anyone who comes in here will probably notice that.”

“And by that time, gorgeous, we’ll be long gone.” Finverior hefted the corpse onto the bed, face-down, and repositioned the dagger so that it was noticeably protruding from the wound. “You injured?”

The other ignored the question. “How did you know that he was an assassin? And how did you know that his target was me?”

“Because I was accompanying him, that’s why.” Finverior chuckled at the expression on Ronan’s face. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to kill you. If you’ve pissed off the Dominion enough to have assassins sent after you, pumpkin, you must be doing something right.”

“The — the Aldmeri Dominion — _they_ hired _you_?” Ronan asked falteringly, not sure whether to be more shocked at the fact that the Dominion wanted him dead or that they hired someone like Finverior to do their work for them.

“One of their affiliates in Daggerfall did. Said that you were supposed to aid in a Thalmor operation in Skyrim, but that you led the agent to his death instead.” Finverior scrutinized him, his lips quirked up in amusement. “You, my dear, were _supposed_ to be dangerous — hence, she saddled me with the incompetent backup I just shanked.”

 _How do they know about what happened to Valmir?_ “Who was this ‘affiliate’?” Ronan inquired, hearing his voice grow fainter and weaker.

“A short, dark-haired Breton with the High Rock Guild — a bit like you, come to think of it, except she had curves in all the right places.” Finverior grinned lewdly. “Not to say that you don’t look tempting or anything, but —”

“What was her name?” Ronan felt his fingernails digging into his palms.

Finverior frowned in thought. “Marie? Marietta? Something like that?”

“Marat?” By now, his voice was choked.

The other snapped his fingers. “Marat. _That_ was it.” He peered at Ronan, one eyebrow arched. “You know her, don’t you?”

“Jolaine’s the Guildmaster of the High Rock Guild,” Ronan said, a lump forming in his throat. “I — I’ve known her a long time.” _But not long enough to know who she really was... or the extent of her relationship with the Thalmor..._

“How long are we talking and how well did you know her?” Finverior asked. “Because from where I’m standing, sweet cheeks, it sounds like you two were —”

“It’s none of your damn business!” Ronan snapped, finally losing his temper. “And she doesn’t matter anymore; none of that does!” He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “All I’m looking to do right now is leave Riften. After that...”

_It doesn’t matter what I do, as long as I don’t go back to Daggerfall._

Finverior held up his hands. “Easy there, broody. No need to get so touchy.” He pursed his lips in thought, then smirked. “Actually... that’s not such a bad idea.”

Ronan sighed wearily. _Divines deliver me from this elf._ “I’d rather not.”

“Suit yourself, darling. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been told I’m excellent between the sheets.” Finverior knelt down and dragged out a worn knapsack, a hooded cloak, and a thick, fur-lined robe from underneath the bed. “Unfortunately, I should probably get back to Windhelm as soon as possible and inform my employer of this newest development, which leaves me disappointingly unable to sleep much, let alone _with_ anyone.”

“Who’s your employer?”

Finverior dumped the contents of his arms onto a portion of the floor that wasn’t bloodstained and then retrieved a strangely crimson-tinted Orcish dagger, a bow of supple, polished black wood, and a quiver of arrows to add to the pile. “Now _that_ is a secret.”

Ronan scrutinized the other for a moment. For some reason, Finverior’s sleazy personality and bright red hair seemed unusually familiar to him.

Then it struck him. “Are you Enthir’s nephew? The one working for the High Queen?”

Finverior’s head snapped up in surprise. “You know Kajsa, too? Small world, I suppose.” He stood up, pulling his robe on and then slinging the knapsack, bow, and quiver over his shoulders. “You one of hers as well?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Finverior chuckled. “Take my advice: get out of her bedroom while the king’s still in the dark. I mean, she’s easy on the eyes and all, in a stern and forbidding kind of way, but her husband is a protective-bordering-on-possessive sort, _so_ —”

“I’m _not_ sleeping with the High Queen,” Ronan said irritably. “That’s not what I meant by ‘it’s a little more complicated.’”

“Alright, be mysterious, then. I like a little mystery in a man.” Finverior threw his cloak over his shoulders and sheathed the dagger in his belt. “But hey: if you’re going back to Windhelm as well, sunshine, traveling together’s not out of the question for me.”

Ronan hesitated. Then, it dawned on him and he almost smiled. _Why not? It’s not like I have anywhere else to go._

“I’m not going that way, actually, but... do you happen to know how to get to Dayspring Canyon? I think it’s southeast of Riften somewhere...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan arrives at Fort Dawnguard.


	12. Dawnguard

Despite the slight mist hanging over the path ahead, Dayspring Canyon lived up to its name. Low-growing bushes and slim birches grew at the base of the mountains surrounding it, and the rushing of water echoed somewhere ahead. Aside from that and a thrush faintly chirping nearby, there was a calm still in the canyon.

Pulling back his hood, Ronan closed his eyes and tilted his head up, letting the warm, early-morning sun warm his face. The weather in the Rift was relatively balmy compared to the rest of Skyrim; with a pang, he realized it reminded him a bit of High Rock.

_But I’m still some distance away from anything remotely familiar..._

“Oh, hey there! You here to join the Dawnguard, too?”

Ronan opened his eyes at the voice. In front of him stood a blond Nord man wearing a well-worn green tunic with an axe hanging at the belt. He looked to be about Ronan’s age and he had a friendly, open face.

“I — I suppose I am,” Ronan said, unsure of what to say. “I’m Ronan. Ronan Sorleigh,” he added, holding out his hand.

“I’m Agmaer.” Grinning, Agmaer shook his hand briefly. “Are you from Skyrim?”

Ronan hesitated. “Yes. I’m from Riften.” _I may have lived the last decade or so of my life in Daggerfall, but... I wasn’t born there and I wasn’t raised there._

“You must have had no trouble getting here, then!” Agmaer laughed. “My family lives in Rorikstead; I’ve never been this far outside of Whiterun Hold before!”

Ronan smiled weakly. Even though he’d poured over the map of Skyrim he’d bought back in Markarth, he’d been unable to find Dayspring Canyon until Finverior had marked it out for him. Finverior had offered to guide him there (“There’s nothing like sleeping under the stars — especially when you can keep warm with someone,” he’d said with a sleazy smile), but Ronan had declined; he’d had more than his share of strangers who knew who he was, let alone libidinous elven assassins.

“Truth is, I’m a little nervous,” Agmaer confessed. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I hope you don’t mind if I walk up with you.”

“Not at all.”

“Thanks.” Agmaer fell into step beside him as they began to walk again. “Hey, uh, please don’t tell Isran I was afraid to meet him by myself. Not the best first impression for a new vampire hunter, I guess.” He laughed shakily.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ronan assured. “I’m not exactly good with first impressions myself.”

“You look like you’ve killed lots of vampires, though,” the other said, admiring Ronan’s leathers and the daggers at his belt and the bow on his back. “I bet Isran will sign you right up.”

“Actually, I’ve never killed a vampire. I have killed one of the hounds they keep around them, though.” Ronan felt a chill creeping down his neck at the memory of the beast’s red eyes and slavering mouth.

“Really?” Agmaer looked impressed. “Some of those things — death hounds, we call ‘em — attacked a few of the farms in Rorikstead. Nobody got killed, fortunately, but they slaughtered a few goats and a cow. I hear they’re tough to put down.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Ronan asked.

The other nodded. “Rorikstead’s been lucky, but I’ve heard about the vampire attacks on other towns. I — I just want to help in any way I can.”

Ronan swallowed. “That’s admirable.” _Certainly more noble than running away from your past... seeking to start over somewhere where no one knows your face or your father..._

“So why are you —?” Agmaer’s voice trailed off as he stared up ahead. “Is that — is that Fort Dawnguard?”

Ronan followed his gaze, his breath catching in his throat. A massive fortress of smooth grey stone loomed ahead of them and towered above the birch saplings around it, seeming to spring from the mountainside itself. For a structure that seemed to be in good repair, the architecture was strangely old-fashioned, almost simplistic in its design. But Ronan had to remind himself that this was no noble’s palace that one might find in Cyrodiil or High Rock, but a castle: harsh, forbidding, and meant for war.

“Where is everyone?” Agmaer wondered out loud. “This place looks deserted.”

Nodding in agreement, Ronan scanned the walls. From what he could see of the battlements through the thin, square crenellations, they were deserted.

“Maybe what men they have are inside the fort,” Agmaer ventured. “I mean, if they’re out recruiting people, they can’t have that many to begin with.” He paused. “Do you hear that?”

Ronan listened carefully. In the relative quiet of the canyon, there came a _thunk_ not too far off. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

His companion started walking again, and Ronan followed him. As the two continued up the path, they heard the sound again, this time louder and closer, and accompanied not long after by a mechanical cranking noise.

Halfway up the hill, they came upon a small clearing near the base of one of the towers, littered with tree stumps. Durak was standing in the center with the strange bow-like contraption that Ronan had seen him use against the vampire in Winterhold up by his shoulder; as he and Agmaer watched, Durak took aim and fired at a splintered tree trunk on the other edge of the clearing. The bolt had burrowed into the trunk before Ronan could blink.

Briefly appraising his shot, Durak turned around to see them. “Well, well,” he chuckled. “I guess you decided to come after all, Sorleigh. And you brought a friend.”

Ronan pointed at Durak’s weapon, now balanced on one broad shoulder. “What’s that you’re shooting with?” he asked, not even trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

“Never seen a crossbow, eh? Not surprised. They’re kind of a Dawnguard specialty.” Durak held up the crossbow so he could see it better; Ronan noticed that it was indeed like a miniature bow, but fixed on a wooden stock with a notch in the center for the bolt, a trigger underneath, and a handle to pull back the string. “They might take a little time to reload, but they’re fast and powerful. Nothing better for putting down vampires.”

Ronan held out his hands. “Do you mind if I try?”

“Practice with your own.” Durak gestured towards a nearby stump, where another crossbow and a small pouch of bolts lay. “You’ll want to get to know how to use it if you plan to join the Dawnguard.”

Ronan walked to the stump and picked up the crossbow; unlike his bow, the melding of wood and steel felt strange and heavy in his hands. Pulling out one of the bolts, he carefully fed it in.

“Now crank that back,” Durak directed, tapping the handle.

Ronan did so with some effort, watching the string getting pulled taut as the bars over the pivots on the handle slid back.

“Takes practice to pull that back quickly,” Durak said gruffly. “Now put it up by your shoulder, aim for that trunk over there, and pull the trigger. Keep it steady,” he warned as Ronan’s arm started to shake a little under the unfamiliar weight. “Now shoot.”

His finger closed around the trigger and the bolt hissed through the air, driving into the tree trunk with a _thunk_. Ronan squinted at his target, feeling some pride that he’d even hit the trunk at all.

“Not bad for a first shot,” Durak said. “Keep working on that aim, though. You’ll need a stronger arm if you’re going to take out a vampire with one bolt.” He handed the pouch of bolts along with a leather back holster over to Ronan. “Take these with you, Sorleigh. Crossbow won’t do you much good without ‘em.”

Nodding his thanks, Ronan turned away, fitting the pouch onto his belt just before one of his dagger sheaths. He slid the crossbow into the holster, but tucked the apparatus under his arm, resolving to put it on later. “Is Isran up in the fort?”

“Yeah. He’s arguing with some Vigilant now, so he’ll probably be more than happy to talk to you for a change.” Durak snorted with disdain. “Damn Vigilants. In any case, good luck.”

“Thanks.” Ronan started walking again, navigating the roughly cleared oath upwards.

Agmaer, previously hanging back, caught up to him. “You know him?”

“I’ve met Durak before. He’s the one who convinced me to join.” It amazed and dismayed him how easily the half-lies were slipping off his tongue.

“Did you hear what he said about a Vigilant?” Agmaer’s brow was furrowed with confusion. “I’d heard the Hall of the Vigilant had been attacked, but I hadn’t heard about survivors.”

Ronan shrugged, inwardly hoping that Durak hadn’t been talking about Vigilant Cadarn; he didn’t look forward to encountering her again. “We’ll just have to see, I suppose.”

Agmaer didn’t look encouraged, but he nodded. “By the way, how exactly do you fire this?” he asked, pointing at the crossbow.

Grateful for the change of subject, Ronan brought it out and began to explain as they continued to walk up.

 

Compared to the bright, yet soft sunlight outside, the interior of Fort Dawnguard was pitch-black. But as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light, Ronan noticed that the circular main hall with the high ceiling and worn banners hanging off the walls was actually well-lit, unlike the various dim hallways that branched off of it.

A deep growl of a voice caught his attention. “Why are you here, Tolan? The Vigilants and I were finished with each other long ago.”

Still remaining in the shadows by the door, Ronan looked towards the hall’s center. The owner of the voice was a bald Redguard man with a bushy black beard, wearing armor similar to Durak’s with the long handle of a warhammer protruding from behind his shoulder. He stood across from a solidly built Nord man with blond sideburns, wearing the distinctive robes of the Vigil of Stendarr along with steel plate gauntlets and boots.

“You know why I’m here,” the Vigilant — _Tolan_ , Ronan corrected — said accusingly. “The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much stronger than we believed.”

“And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?” the other finished, some trace of disgust in his voice; Ronan guessed that he must be Isran. “I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Fort Dawnguard was a crumbling ruin, worth neither the expense nor the manpower to repair. And now that you’ve stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?”

“Isran, Carcette is dead.” Tolan’s face was stricken. “The Hall of the Vigilant is destroyed and everyone... everyone is dead. You were right and we were wrong. My wife is dead and my daughter is missing. Isn’t that enough for you?”

With a start, Ronan took a closer look at Tolan. The color of his matted hair, his carriage, the way his jaw was set with outrage... it was all very reminiscent of Fenella. _The resemblance from father to daughter isn’t as strong as it could be, but it_ is _there._

“Yes, well... I never wanted this to happen, if that’s any consolation,” Isran said gruffly. “I tried to warn you, you know... I am sorry it’s come to this.”

Tolan’s lips tightened, obviously not believing the insincere apology.

Looking past him, Isran’s eyes narrowed as he saw Ronan and Agmaer standing by the door. “Who are you? And what do you want?”

Sensing that his companion wouldn’t step forward, Ronan took a deep breath and walked out towards the center of the hall. “My name’s Ronan Sorleigh. I heard from Durak that you needed vampire hunters.”

Isran nodded brusquely. “Durak told you right. I’m glad word’s starting to get around, but it won’t be long until the vampires start to take notice as well.” He gestured around him at the dusty, cobwebbed corners of the hall. “As you can probably see, there’s not much to join yet. I’ve only just started rebuilding the order.”

“Well, I’m sure I can help,” Ronan maintained.

“Hmm.” Crossing his arms, Isran examined him critically. “Aside from that crossbow you filched, what’s your weapon?”

“Daggers.” He tapped one of the hilts at his side. “I like the bow, though. I prefer to keep some distance.”

“Not exactly cut out for close combat, are you?” Isran mused, frowning. “You hardly look you can wear heavy armor, let alone wield a warhammer.”

Ronan shook his head.

“Bow’s better than nothing. It’ll help you with the crossbow,” Isran said gruffly. “I need someone out in the field, taking the fight to the vampires while I’m getting the fort back in shape. Think you can do that?”

Ronan nodded, relieved.

“Good. Tolan —” Isran turned back to the other “— tell him about that cave — Dimhollow, was it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Dimhollow Crypt.” All of the anger had gone out of Tolan, but his manner was still stiff and wary. “Brother Adalvald was sure that it held some long-lost vampire artifact of some kind, but — but we didn’t listen to him any more than we did Isran. He was at the Hall when it was attacked...” He trailed off.

“That’s good enough for me.” Isran addressed Ronan again. “Dimhollow Crypt’s about half a day from Whiterun, in the mountains on the hold’s northern border. Go see what the vampires were looking for; with any luck, they’ll still be there.”

Tolan spoke again, weary, but resolute. “I’ll meet you at Dimhollow. It’s the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades.”

Isran let out a sigh. “Tolan, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You Vigilants were never trained for –”

“I know what you think of us.” Tolan’s voice was biting. “You think we’re soft, that we’re cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting.” Face like stone, he turned around, facing Ronan. “I’m going to Dimhollow Crypt, whether the both of you like it or not.”

Ronan swallowed. “Vigilant Tolan... you said you had a daughter...”

“Yes. Fenella. She was a Vigilant as well. I — I do not know if she was at the Hall — if she —” His eyes lowered.

“She’s alive. I saw her in Windhelm, asking for aid to go after the vampires who committed the attack.” Ronan left out the part about Ulfric’s refusal.

Thankfully, Tolan did not ask. “She’s alive... gods be praised.” His face softened with relief. “I’ll head for Windhelm and see if I can find her before I meet with you at Dimhollow. My daughter can definitely help us.” He clasped Ronan’s hand and shook it. “Thank you so much.”

All Ronan could do was nod dumbly as Tolan released his hand and continued on his path towards the door. _Is it really so strange to hear someone thanking me instead of cursing me?_

Isran spoke in the still after the doors closed behind Tolan. “Feel free to look around the fort and take what supplies you’ll need.” He gestured towards one of the doorways leading off of the main hall. “Barracks are that way. Some of the other recruits should be around here somewhere.”

Ronan thought of Ranmir and made a mental note to avoid that doorway. “Thank you for your offer, but —”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Sorleigh. This your first time fighting vampires?”

“In a manner of speaking —”

Isran smiled humorlessly. “Then you’ll need some supplies: especially if you’re going into a place like Dimhollow.”

Suppressing a quiet sigh, Ronan nodded and turned towards one of the other halls. Behind him, he heard Isran growling at Agmaer to step forward, but he barely paid attention to it.

_You can hardly avoid things forever, Ronan._

Startled at Nocturnal’s voice, he nearly stopped in his tracks, his reluctant acceptance turning into irritation. _Where have You been?_ he demanded. _I needed You last night and You weren’t there._

 _Do not presume that you can command me._ Nocturnal’s voice was nothing less than frigid. _And you were in no real danger. Finverior may be..._ difficult _, but he is more competent than he seems._

Finding a rickety-looking bench nearby, Ronan sat down, making sure he was out of sight of the main hall. _Is he — is he another one like me? Can he hear Your will?_

Nocturnal laughed. _Hardly. He may be a thief — among other things — but the Bosmer’s soul belongs to an entirely different, immeasurably more dreaded power._

 _Did You manipulate me?_ he finally asked. _Make it so I’d end up here?_

There was silence for a moment. Then: _Ronan, if there is one thing you must learn, it is that there is a very fine line between chance and fate._

_Is that a yes or a no?_

He could almost hear the slight smile in Her words. _All you need to know, Ronan, is that this is where your path has led you... for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Dungeon crawling in Dimhollow Crypt.


	13. Lost and Found

Dimhollow Crypt was neither colder nor warmer than the world outside, but at the very least, the effects of the wind were significantly lessened; despite the fact that he was chilled to the bone from the heavy, wet snow falling on him throughout his journey north, Ronan was grateful that the storm’s gales were not making that worse. Much more than once, he’d found himself thanking his good sense for telling him to buy a fur cloak before he left for Skyrim. _I don’t know how Nords can live here, let alone people of other races._

The storm hadn’t helped him much as far as finding the cave was concerned; Ronan was nearly positive that he’d been lost far before it started snowing. But after trekking all over the northern side of the mountains with his map out (and attempting to shield it from the ravages of the weather), he’d hit upon a steep path that’d led him here. Unlike the other caves he’d come across, there’d been a lit lantern outside — _perhaps indicating that someone was still inside?_ he’d thought with a shiver. After checking his map once again, he had concluded that this was indeed Dimhollow Crypt.

The ground by the entrance of the cave was still covered in a light layer of snow, and his frozen feet protested as he continued up the slight incline, barely making a sound. Ronan examined the snow for footprints and was not long in finding a second, larger set. _Tolan? Or a vampire?_

“Those Vigilants never know when to give up,” came a raspy voice from not far off. “I thought we taught them enough of a lesson at their hall.”

His breath stopping in his throat, Ronan pressed himself against the cave wall and prayed that he was out of sight of whatever was up ahead.

“To come in here alone... a fool like all the rest of them,” another, lower voice agreed.

Ronan’s eyes flitted towards the footprints — Tolan’s footprints — again. _He got here before I did... but he did not wait._ He swallowed.

“He fought well, though,” the first vampire continued, almost conversationally. “Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him.”

“The better for us,” the second countered. “Their arrogance had become insufferable.”

“All this talk is making me thirsty. Perhaps another Vigilant will wander in soon,” the first mused with a sinister chuckle.

“I wish Lokil would hurry it up,” the second vampire said scathingly. “I have half a mind to return to the castle and tell Harkon what a fool he’s entrusted this mission to.”

“And I have half a mind to tell Lokil of your disloyalty,” the first threatened.

“You wouldn’t dare,” the second hissed. “Now shut up and keep on watch.”

Heart pounding, Ronan closed his eyes and tried to think. Now he knew for a fact that the vampires were still here, looking for _something —_ and Tolan was dead. He was alone and virtually stranded, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t go back to Fort Dawnguard and just lie to Isran about Dimhollow — _even though I’d probably be capable of that,_ he thought sourly.

But his one clear option was apparent. All that remained was to execute it.

Crouching down, Ronan crept up to the mouth of the tunnel and peered beyond. The main cavern was wide and low-ceilinged, with natural rock formations rising from the ground and acting as pillars of a sort. Craggy outcroppings covered in snow contrasted with the trickling stream running through the cave’s lowest points. He thought he could see another entrance beyond, but he couldn’t be sure through the small waterfall of mountain water that obscured his view.

On the other side of the cavern, a shadow moved, and Ronan realized with a start that it was a death hound: black, hulking, and prowling around the tunnel there. _With the two vampires, that makes three... and however many others are within. But where are the other two?_

As if to answer his previous question, a figure moved out from behind one of the pillars, followed closely by another: both wearing dark leather armor that contrasted with their pallid faces and gleaming eyes.

Trying to keep his breathing steady, Ronan carefully slid out the crossbow from the holster on his back and loaded a bolt as quietly as he could, dreading a tell-tale click or a shifting of snow that might indicate his position. Bringing it up to his shoulder, he scanned the scene ahead of him for a moment before deciding on his target. He pulled the trigger and —

_Thunk._

Two things happened within a second of the bolt being released. The death hound collapsed with a growling whine, and the two vampires whirled around, ice crackling in their open palms. Relieved that he didn’t miss and terrified at his discovery, Ronan grabbed another bolt, reloaded the crossbow as fast as he could, aimed again, and fired.

The second bolt grazed the neck of one, and the wounded vampire snarled. Hastily reloading, Ronan fired again; this time, much to his relief, he didn’t miss, and the vampire dropped to the snow with a bolt in his chest.

_But there’s still one more..._

Almost before he could react, the last vampire was halfway up the path and sprinting straight towards him, teeth bared and eyes blazing. Panic welling up in him, Ronan lashed out with the crossbow, and it caught the vampire on the side of the head. As his attacker reeled from the blow, Ronan unsheathed one of his daggers and stabbed blindly. The vampire tumbled off the ledge and landed with a _thud_ on the uneven rocks below, where it lay still.

Breathing heavily, Ronan knelt with shaking knees and wiped his dagger off on the snow, staining it with dark blood. _It’s a good thing my reflexes are still up to par._

 _No need to thank me._ Nocturnal sounded rather smug.

He blinked out of surprise; he hadn’t expected to hear from Her. _What do You mean?_

_Without my aid, you would not have been able to see those vampires, let alone be silent and quick enough to kill them. You seem to forget that I am in the habit of looking out for those I favor._

_It seems like You’re giving me reasons not to oppose You._ He stood up, sheathing his dagger and sliding the crossbow back into its sheath, and continued down the path while being careful of ice. _I don’t need Your gifts._

_Perhaps. But without them, it would be the vampires walking and not you._

_Should I grow used to Your interference, then?_ he asked dryly.

Ronan could almost hear Her shrugging. _If you deem it necessary. Mortals should not get in the habit of “growing used” to the finite things around them._

 _But are You not_ in _finite?_ He’d reached the outcropping, noticing that the death hound’s corpse lay beside those of three other vampires and a larger, bloodier one; Ronan averted his eyes when he saw that the tattered purple robes of Vigilant Tolan clothed the mauled body.

_My favor rarely lasts that long._

_Then I’ll appreciate it while it lasts,_ he countered, looking towards the tunnel opening and seeing that it was covered by a rusting gate.

Nocturnal laughed. _A wise decision._

Ignoring Her, Ronan trudged off to try and find some way to get the gate open.

 

“This has been a more trying week than usual,” Finverior sighed dramatically, falling back into an empty seat by the roaring fire. “If at all possible, High Queen, I’d like a substantial raise, some strong alcohol, and a good roll in the hay.”

Occupying the other chair with a fur mantle around her shoulders and Torgnyr cradled in her lap, Kajsa raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have no trouble finding the latter two, and your pay can be re-negotiated at another time. How about your report?”

“Let me at least warm up first. My extremities are _freezing._ ” Finverior made a show of putting his hands up to the hearth and then rubbing them together. “Tonight’s storm is even stormier than usual, and this drafty old palace isn’t helping matters any.”

Kajsa unwound her mantle with one hand, being careful not to disturb her son, and held it out. “You can borrow this for the moment.”

“Much obliged, High Queen.” Finverior leaned over to grab the mantle, smiling slightly when he saw the sleeping Torgnyr. “In case I haven’t said this before, he’s not a bad-looking kid.”

Kajsa returned the gesture, albeit a bit wearily. “He resembles his father more than he does me, and I’m grateful for that.”

“Well, he might look just like the High King when he gets older, but for now, that huge nose does _not_ look attractive on a baby.” Finverior lightly tapped Torgnyr’s nose before he retreated back to his seat and swathed himself in the fur mantle. “Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with big noses; your husband looks particularly nice with one,” he added with a grin. “And you know what they say about the... _endowments_ of men with big noses —”

“— and I am certain that they, or my husband, have nothing to do with your report,” Kajsa retorted coolly.

“I was getting to that!” Finverior protested, laughing. “You know I’m only messing with you, High Queen.”

“It’s hard to tell at times,” Kajsa said dryly. “Now, about Valenwood –”

“Valenwood? Same old, same old: crawling with walking trees and Thalmor and only one of those has a right to be there.” Finverior sighed, almost angrily. “But the truly interesting part came on the way home.”

“Would this have something to do with the reason you’re late?” Kajsa asked a trifle tartly.

“Yeah, it does. The Night Mother decided to drop in on my mind on the voyage up to the Iliac Bay.” He scowled. “It came at a _very_ inopportune time. Is that dusty old hag always in the habit of catching her Listeners with their pants down?”

 _Seeing as_ _Ulfric and I were still fairly antagonistic_ _during that time in my life, I wouldn’t know._ She settled for shrugging noncommittally. “I had to leave you some surprises. Who held the contract?”

“Your best friend in the High Rock Guild, Jolaine Marat. Only you never mentioned how attractive she was,” Finverior added, grinning. “For shame.”

Kajsa frowned. “Marat carried out the Black Sacrament? On who?”

“Hold your horses, High Queen; I’m getting there.” Finverior leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs. “So I make a little side trip to Daggerfall to go see her, and she meets me in the back room of some pretentious tavern with some Thalmor goons. Something tells me,” he added ominously, “that they were handling her more than she was handling them.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kajsa mused. “After Marat’s change of heart regarding her theft of the peace treaty, I imagine the Thalmor are keeping a tighter leash on her.” An alarming thought came to her. “The Thalmor didn’t recognize you, did they?”

“Nah,” Finverior dismissed, waving his hand flippantly. “I had my cowl and face mask on; my own grandmother, gods rest her crusty old soul, wouldn’t have known who I was. And it’s not like the Thalmor would have recognized me without it. Their bounty poster artists can’t capture the true beauty of my face.”

 _He’s been lucky, then_ _... far more than I._ The scars on her cheek tingled at his words, but the Kajsa ignored the sensation. “Who did she — or the Thalmor — want dead?”

“One of the Senior Operatives in her Guild. Name’s Ronan Sorleigh.” He squinted at the shocked expression on Kajsa’s face. “Ah, so you _do_ know him after all.”

“He’s a recent acquaintance,” Kajsa said tightly, regaining control of herself. “And what do you mean by ‘after all’?”

“He told me that he knew you. Yeah, I met him a night or so ago,” Finverior hurried on before she could get a word in. “I and the Thalmor assassin that Marat sent with me caught up to him in Riften. I took care of my backup and sent Sorleigh on his merry way.” He sighed wistfully. “Pity. He was kinda cute, in an adorably flustered, irritated way.”

Kajsa studiously ignored him, pursing her lips in thought. “Did Marat offer any reason for why Sorleigh had to die?”

“Not a very compelling reason, anyway,” Finverior said. “Murmured something about ‘taking care of liabilities’ or something like that. Might have been just me, but she didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic about sentencing Sorleigh to death.”

“It’s not just you; Sorleigh mentioned that he and Marat were close.” Kajsa thought for a moment, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in her mind.

“You have a much more intimate knowledge of the Dominion's ideology than I, Finverior, so correct me if I'm wrong,” she said briskly. “If the Thalmor weren’t, for whatever reason, going to execute Marat for returning the peace treaty and exposing their machinations in Daggerfall, they would surely punish her, would they not?”

Finverior nodded in agreement. “So here's what I'm thinking: they twist her arm and force her to send Sorleigh to Skyrim: ostensibly to help a Thalmor agent on a top-secret mission, but it’s more likely that that agent was supposed to kill Sorleigh as well. The Dominion loves that whole two-birds-one-stone kind of efficiency.” He grinned. “Unfortunately for both parties, that agent ended up dead and Marat’s Thalmor handler got pissed enough to perform the Black Sacrament so that Marat could be properly punished.”

“This Thalmor handler…” Kajsa said slowly, a dreadful thought growing in her head. “What did she look like?”

“Tall and imperious, with an expression like she was perpetually smelling something bad underneath her nose. Pale blonde hair, voice just short of shrill. Thoroughly unpleasant overall, but the Thalmor aren’t known for being comedians.” Finverior stopped. “Do you know her? It sounds like you know her.”

“All too well.” Without realizing it, Kajsa tightened her arms around Torgnyr ever so slightly. “You just described former First Emissary Elenwen.”

 

Despite repeatedly telling himself that he should be focused on other matters — like survival — Ronan could not help but think to himself in a rather uncharacteristically dry manner that Dimhollow Crypt certainly lived up to its name. It was definitely dim, with its winding tunnels that were shrouded in shadow and chambers that were nearly impossible to see in. No matter how quietly he tried to move, his footfalls seemed to echo in the still, highlighting the hollow barrenness of the ancient passages.

As for the title of “crypt”… between the revived skeletons, the terrifying walking corpses with unearthly blue eyes, the death hounds, the giant spiders, and one or two vampires, there was no doubt in Ronan’s mind why this place had earned that name: there was nothing alive and good there.

Even though his strategy of striking from afar with his crossbow was working well, he considered himself very lucky that he’d made it this far while relatively unscathed. His sleeve was ripped and his arm bleeding from the bite of a death hound that had gotten a little too close, and he was feeling slightly ill to his stomach from the effects of the Cure Poison potion purging the spider venom from his system.

Carefully closing the small wooden door behind him and sliding down to the cold stone floor in near exhaustion, Ronan wondered how much farther he had to go. _I don’t want to fail... but I’m not sure if I_ can _go much farther..._

From beyond the small chamber he’d entered into, a labored, but defiant voice came from below. “I’ll never tell you anything, vampire. My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict upon me —” His voice cut off abruptly.

Getting to his feet as silently as he could and tightening his hold on his crossbow, Ronan crept out of the chamber, sparing only a glance towards the disturbing statues flanking the door, and towards the railing outside. He dared not look over, for fear he might be seen. _They might have already heard me... I don’t know how good a vampire’s senses are..._

“Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?” a raspy voice ( _the voice of a vampire,_ Ronan identified with a chill) questioned with a hint of impudence. “He still might have told us something. We haven’t gotten anywhere with —”

“He knew nothing,” an arrogant-sounding voice ( _Lokil, most likely_ , Ronan thought) interrupted. “He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize.”

 _Harkon._ Ronan remembered the name from the conversation he’d overheard earlier. _Is he another vampire? And are these vampires all under his command?_

“And we will not return without it,” Lokil continued in a tone that brooked no argument. “Vingalmo and Orthjolf — perhaps even our Lord’s latest overly important lackey — will make way for me after this.”

“Yes, of course, Lokil.” The other vampire sounded singularly unimpressed. “Do not forget who brought you the news of the Vigilants’ discovery.”

Lokil laughed haughtily, sending shivers down Ronan’s spine. “I never forget who my friends are. Or my enemies.”

As soon as Ronan heard the sound of receding footsteps, he carefully peeked over the top of the railing and immediately froze in place. _By the Eight... what is that?_

Ronan’s eyes went to the very center of the massive cavern, where a circular stone platform ringed with thin, strangely arched walls rose above the still, dark waters of an underground lake. The two indistinct figures of the vampires were crossing a single, slender bridge that led from the network of stairs he was at the top of over to it. From this distance, Ronan couldn’t see if there was anything in the center of the platform — _but whatever the vampires are looking for must be nearby._ _.._

Spurred on, Ronan crept down the stairs as quietly and as quickly as he could: no easy task considering that they were steep, crumbling, and shrouded in shadow. Once or twice, he felt himself begin to lose his footing, but he hastily readjusted his position so as not to fall.

Ronan finally found himself on the dais that connected to the bridge; it was made of stone, like all of the other structures, but nature seemed more intent on reclaiming it than any other. He inched forward, glimpsing the bloodied body of another Vigilant lying limp to his left and shuddering involuntarily. _These creatures show no mercy._

He still could not see whatever was in the center of the circular platform, but he could glimpse the vampires, who seemed to be arguing nearer to the outskirts of it. Checking to make sure that his crossbow was loaded, Ronan brought it up to his shoulder and aimed for what seemed to be the closer of the two.

His heart tightened in fear as the bolt whistled through the air, and then loosened again when he heard the tell-tall _thunk_ of the tip driving into flesh. One of the vampires fell, and the other’s eyes, glowing orange in the dim light, snapped towards the shore.

Mouth dry, Ronan fumbled for another bolt and loaded the crossbow again, praying that it would hit. He looked up to aim and saw that the remaining vampire was nearly all the way over the bridge.

The vampire laughed. “I knew I smelled blood!” He lunged for Ronan, hands curled into claws around floating orbs of ice.

Ronan rolled out of the way, the Frostbite spell freezing the ground where he’d once been. He drew one of his daggers and launched himself at the vampire’s back, driving the blade between his shoulders. The vampire stiffened and dropped to the stone, and Ronan fell with him, the air rushing out of his lungs.

After a few moments of sucking in deep breaths, Ronan picked himself up, yanking his dagger out and wiping it off on a section of the dead vampire’s robes before sheathing it. _Close combat is not for me._

 _You seem to manage_ _,_ Nocturnal commented wryly.

Ronan sighed; it unsettled him that he’d resigned himself to Her presence. _Only because You help me._

 _How can you determine that?_ Her question was suspiciously coy.

 _Because I know,_ he snapped, holstering his crossbow and starting across the bridge. _I can feel it when You’re influencing me._

She laughed softly. _Not always, my dear. Not always._

Swallowing, Ronan focused on the mysterious platform that he found himself on. Now that he was standing within it, he now realized why he couldn’t see through; there was another disjointed set of arches within the outer wall. They encircled the center, along with a series of deep grooves in the floor that ringed and radiated from a single, low pillar at their heart.

Stepping up to the pillar, Ronan curiously ran his hand over its domed top. Before he could react, a spike shot up from it, lancing cleanly through his left palm.

“Son of a _bitch_ —” he choked out, wincing as he carefully slid his hand off the spike. Blood covered his hand, dripping down over the pillar and running down the sides.

Suddenly, Ronan stumbled back from the pillar, watching in amazement and fear as rippling flames of the deepest purple sprang up from one of the grooved rings surrounding him and rushed out one of the radiating lines. A tall brazier standing there caught alight with the strange flame.

For a moment, he was afraid that he was trapped in here — _caught in a trap triggered with my own blood._ Tentatively taking a step forward, Ronan examined his wounded hand and then touched a single finger to the flame. Much to his surprise, the fire felt _cold._

Encouraged by this, he backed up a bit and then took a running leap through the flames. Ronan felt a chill like no other pass over his body, but after he was safe on the outside, he checked himself over for injuries, finding no damage aside from what was already there.

Reaching for a healing potion from his pack, he dribbled some of the phial’s content over his palm and then examined the scene before him as he tucked it away and waited for his flesh to knit itself together again. For the first time, he noticed other braziers that had been placed in the grooves, but only the one he saw before was lit, flames dancing in it.

Ronan flexed his hand experimentally; aside from slight twinges in the center of his palm, it seemed to be all right, but he resolved to get it checked by a healer as soon as he could, perhaps at the Temple of Kynareth he’d seen in Whiterun. _But first... to see what this is all about._

The longer he looked, an idea formed in his head. Seeing that there was another brazier beside him, this one unlit, he pressed his palms against its underside and then drew them away just as quickly for fear of more hidden spikes. Despite the momentary pressure, the brazier moved.

 _So they’re_ meant _to be arranged to catch the flame,_ he mused. _Let’s see if I can do that..._

Pushing against the brazier, Ronan managed to direct it along the groove and towards the first ring of fire that had sprung up. As he predicted, both the brazier and another groove nearby caught flame.

Moving around the circle, Ronan painstakingly moved each brazier into place, watching the eerie purple fire issue from the stones and grow even higher. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally shoved the final brazier into its place in the center, ignoring his complaining muscles.

Suddenly, the flame rushed along the grooves towards the centermost ring, leaping around the spiked pillar as the stones beneath it split. Ronan took a step back and nearly fell as the platform sunk behind him into steps. A pool of purple fire formed around the pillar and vibrant tendrils of energy snaked up towards the cavern’s ceiling as the pillar rose, exposing what was beneath it: a monolith of black stone emerging from the fires themselves.

The purple flame vanished abruptly, leaving the cavern as dim and shadowy as it had been before. As Ronan made a cautious move forward, one of the monolith’s sides slid away with a scraping of stone, revealing what lay underneath.

Ronan’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting the vampires to be looking for... but it wasn’t _this._

Inside the monolith was a woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Serana awakens.


	14. Ancient Influence

Arms crossed over her chest like a body being prepared for burial, head tilted up as if to see sunlight, the woman in the monolith was as still as a statue. Small and slender, she was clad in a deep red tunic underneath a black leather corset and gauntlets, her shoulders covered by a cloak fastened with a compass-like brooch and her neck protected by a heavy-looking metal choker carved with unsettling designs. Dark hair, some of it caught up in braids and tied at the back of her head, contrasted with her pale, luminescent skin and rose-colored lips.

Ronan couldn’t imagine how long the body had been in there, but time had left her strangely untouched. _Who is she? And why are the vampires after her?_

Suddenly, the woman gasped, her breaths rattling and shaking with effort. Her knees buckled under her and she crumpled to the ground.

 _She’s alive!_ Acting on instinct, Ronan dove, catching the woman before she hit the stones; she was surprisingly light, but absolutely chilled to the touch. She tensed for a moment, but her body slackened again and her head lolled against his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he reassured, trying to keep his questions back. “You’re okay.”

The woman’s fingers dug into his shoulders as she struggled to her feet, shaking her head as if waking up from a deep sleep. “Who — where is — who sent you?” she asked groggily, her voice low and musical.

Ronan hesitated for a moment, but decided that etiquette still held, even when dealing with mysterious woman released from monoliths. “My name’s Ronan. Ronan Sorleigh. And —” he paused, trying to think of something to say. _Maybe I shouldn’t mention I’m from the Dawnguard. That might give her a fright._ “Who were you expecting, exactly?”

“I — I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead, wincing in pain. “Someone... someone like me, at least.”

Ronan froze. Now that he was closer, he could see that her face was unlined and surprisingly young. “Are you a —?” he started, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“Vampire, yes.” Crossing her arms, the woman turned her eyes to him with a challenging gaze. They were a golden color that he’d never seen before: bright and burning in the gloom.

 _A vampire... that I released with my own blood…_ Ronan swallowed, refusing to allow himself be unsettled. “Why were you locked away like this?” _Perhaps she was dangerous... enough so that her own kind feared her._

The vampire pursed her lips. “I think the better question is why you’ve released me. You’re obviously not one of my kin, and you’re not trying to kill me — yet — so you can understand why I might be a little confused.”

“Answer my question first,” he countered. _Is this what vampires do? Talk to their victims and catch them off-guard?_

She sighed. “That’s... complicated. And I’m not completely sure that I can trust you.”

 _You and me both,_ he thought sourly.

“But... you did get me out of here, so... I guess you’re all right,” the vampire continued, almost talking to herself. “I suppose I should thank you, but think I’ll wait a bit.”

Ronan frowned. “Until when?”

A slight smile curved up the corners of her lips. “Until I find out why you released me — I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Ronan,” he repeated cautiously. “Ronan Sorleigh.”

“Ronan,” she mused. “That’s a nice name.” The vampire fell silent for a moment, thinking. Then: “Would you mind doing me a favor, Ronan? I know that you’re probably not inclined to help me, but...”

“What is this ‘favor’?” Ronan ventured.

“I need to get home.”

He stared at her, unsure if she was serious or not.

“It’s a simple enough request,” she chided gently, that same smile returning.

“Why do you need my help?” Ronan asked suspiciously. “Don’t you know where it is?”

“Of _course_ I know where it is. It’s on an island to the north of Haafingar, which is a bit of a ways from here.” Her smile turned sour. “Of course, I’ve just been released from my prison after who knows _how_ many years, and I don’t think it would be wise for me to make the journey on my own while I’m still a bit weak.”

“And _I_ don’t think it would be wise for me to travel with a vampire,” Ronan said, his words coming out a bit sharper than intended.

The vampire laughed, her white teeth flashing in the dim light. “Oh, come now; it won’t be for very long. Just two day’s journey at most, after which we can part ways and you’ll never have to worry about me again. Besides,” she added, gesturing to one of the corpses of the vampires he’d killed earlier, “you seem more than capable of protecting me.”

“Protecting you from what?”

She sighed. “It depends on who’s at home. Generally speaking, it’s not the most welcoming place, but... I may or may not be safe there.”

Against his better judgement, Ronan thought of Daggerfall’s winding, shadowy streets and Jolaine’s husky laughter. _A home I once thought I had... but no longer one._ “Someone you don’t want to see?”

The vampire hesitated. “My father and I... we don’t really get along.” She grimaced. “Ugh. Saying it aloud makes it sound so... _common._ ‘Little girl who doesn’t get along with her father.’ Read _that_ story a hundred times.” She laughed humorlessly.

Ronan swallowed. _How about ‘little boy who never knew his father, but looks just like him and bears the hatred for his father’s deeds’?_

“Anyway —” she pushed away a stray lock of hair from her forehead “— I’d appreciate it if you came along. It would — it would just set my mind at ease.”

Ronan ignored her, looking around the chamber. _You have enough to worry about without adding_ her _into things._ “You wouldn’t happen to know a way out of here, would you?”

She shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. It looks a lot different from when I was locked away.”

“When was that?” he asked, his curiosity unable to be contained.

“Hard to say. I — I don’t really remember, but... I feel like it was a long time ago.” The vampire’s brow furrowed in thought. “Tell me: who is Skyrim’s High King?”

“Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Her frown deepened. “The Stormcloaks are an ancient line, but definitely not a royal one. Who is he married to?”

“Kajsa Stormcloak, the Dragonborn.”

“The — the _Dragonborn_?” _That_ got her attention. “On the throne of Skyrim? How did that happen?”

“Ulfric led a rebellion against the Empire,” Ronan explained, “and the Dragonborn sided with him and tipped the scales in his favor. They achieved independence for Skyrim and became the High King and Queen.”

The vampire smirked. “Fighting over the throne. Good to know that _that_ hasn’t changed much. But...” her smirk faded “...what ‘Empire’ do you speak of?”

“You know... _the_ Empire?” he said slowly. “From Cyrodiil?” _Just how old is she?_

“Cyrodiil is the seat of an empire?” she asked incredulously, her face more perturbed than shocked. “I – I must have been gone much longer than I thought. Definitely longer than we planned.” Her voice trailed off.

“Longer than _who_ planned?” Ronan asked.

She sighed. “I’d rather not get into that, if that’s all right with you. I’m sorry,” she added quickly, “it’s not that — I just don’t know who I can trust yet. I don’t know anything, same as you.”

Ronan raised his eyebrows.

“Look, I’ve been locked away for hundreds, if not _thousands_ of years,” the vampire defended. “I have no idea what’s going on right now, but since you seem to have a grasp on where you are and all, I’d really appreciate your help getting home.”

Ronan lowered his eyes, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, he had no idea how Isran would react if he found out that he brought a centuries-old vampire back to her family without killing every single one of them, but Ronan was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be good. Not to mention that he didn’t particularly want to travel with said centuries-old vampire in the first place, as he was sure that to do so would be tantamount to the fulfillment of a death wish.

On the other hand... she was just as lost and confused as he was when he first came to Skyrim — _and just as I still am,_ he thought with a trace of melancholy. And it didn’t feel right to him to just leave her stranded here underground.

“Let’s see if we can get out of here first,” he found himself saying. “I’ll think about your offer in the meantime.”

The vampire smiled gratefully. “Thank you. By the way... I’m Serana. Just Serana.” She held out her hand. “It’s good to meet you.”

Ronan took her hand and shook it; her skin was smooth, but cold. “And you as well,” he replied, not entirely positive if he meant it or not. _What have I gotten myself into?_

 

In Fenella’s experience, vampires were the most difficult prey to hunt. Daedra worshippers and werewolves never remained hidden for long; in their arrogance or madness or bloodlust, they always made mistakes. But vampires — vampires survived because they had mastered the art of never exposing themselves unless they deemed it necessary, which was incredibly rare.

Fortunately, once they had revealed themselves, they could not hide themselves as easily as they had before.

It had been painful for her to return to the charred timbers and bloodied wreckage of what had once been the Hall of the Vigilant — her _home_ — but Fenella did her best to not dwell on the destruction, looking only for clues that might tell of the vampires’ movements. A light blanket of snow had fallen since she’d last been there, but it was not enough to hide the bloodstains streaking across the white.

Alone and determined, Fenella had followed the trail through the bitterly cold night, until it ended at a small cave carved out of one of the mountains in the range north of the Hall. Rather than feeling some small measure of triumph, Fenella was unsure of what to expect: a fellow Vigilant who had escaped from the carnage like her, or one that had been captured by the vampires.

 _Either way, my path is clear,_ she’d told herself, gritting her jaw. _I swore an oath. Stendarr will guide me._

And now, she found herself in the cave, creeping over the icy floor like a thief with her mace out and one hand poised to cast a spell if needed. Fenella made it to the top of the ridge mostly silently, and then peered over.

The blood trail continued ahead of her, but the still wintery cavern that it led down to was littered with bodies.

Caring little about stealth now, Fenella clambered the rest of the way down and made her way to the rock outcropping that had turned into a graveyard. Scanning the scene, she saw the corpse of a death hound, with four vampires lying scattered on the snow. Crouching to examine one of them, she noted the strangely short arrow that had pierced one’s chest.

And then she saw the body clad in the purple robes of the Vigil of Stendarr, a steel warhammer lying useless by his side.

Fenella’s mouth went dry and she scrambled to his side, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning the dead man over. A wordless cry gasped from her throat when she saw the mauled face of Vigilant Tolan.

“Father, _no_ — no, no, _no_ —” She crumpled in on herself, all pretense of courage gone as her hands clawed the bloodied snow in her grief. _The Vigil — my_ _family — gone, all gone... and I stand alone._

_It was bound to happen someday, my pet._

Her shoulders tensed as she heard His voice echoing in her mind: low and cruel and commanding. She tried to ignore her clenching muscles and the nausea growing in her stomach — the all too familiar effects of His hold on her — but it was not easy and it never had been.

He only laughed, a malevolent sound that sent chills down her spine. _The destruction of the Vigil is not something to be lamented, my pet. Your mother, your father, your so-called friends... they would have gladly turned on you had they found out the secret you hold._

“I would rather that they had!” Fenella snarled. She never spoke to Him with her mind, lest she lose the last amount of protection against Him that she had left. “Death would be kinder than living with You in my head!”

_Death would not release you, my pet. Your soul — your angry, bitter, violent, sacrilegious soul — still belongs to me... and it will stay that way as long as you serve as my vessel._

“No.” She rose to her feet, the handle of her father’s warhammer gripped in one white-knuckled hand. “I will find a way to be rid of You. Until then, I will rid the world of Your foul children.”

Molag Bal laughed again. _Then you will remain on this earth a very long time, my pet. My influence extends far beyond your mortal shell, and the end is only just beginning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Serana and Ronan arrive at Castle Volkihar.


	15. The Lion's Den

“You are a mystery,” Ronan finally said, giving voice to the thoughts that had been swirling around inside his head for the past three days.

“Really?” Serana tilted her head slightly to the side. “How so?”

“Well, you _are_ a centuries-old vampire who’s been trapped in an underground tomb for most of her existence, which raises plenty of questions on its own.” The tiny wooden boat bumped up against the edge of the dock, and Ronan hastily put down the oars and grabbed the coil of rope from underneath his seat. “Not to mention you have an Elder Scroll, which is definitely unusual.”

Serana sighed in mock exasperation, though Ronan couldn’t be sure of that. “ _Again_ with the Elder Scroll? You seem rather fixated on it.”

“All of the Elder Scrolls that had been discovered vanished from the White-Gold Tower’s libraries nearly thirty years ago,” he explained, tying the boat up to the dock. “To see one that’s gone untouched by anyone for hundreds of years... it’s an extraordinary piece of history.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Spare me your scholarly curiosity. It’s my Elder Scroll and nobody’s touching it but me.”

Ronan nodded reluctantly, tearing his eyes from the gleaming case that protruded from behind her shoulder in favor of clambering onto the dock. The wood beneath his feet was damp and soft from the mist and the sea water, and slippery from algae, but it held. “And of course, there’s the fact that you won’t answer any of my questions.”

Serana smiled, almost teasingly. “It’s all part of maintaining my mystique.”

Ronan returned the smile despite himself. “You have a point.” He took her hand as she stood, helping her out of the boat.

She nodded her thanks, adjusting her hood and cloak to further shield against the chill and the lightly falling snow. “This must be that beautiful Skyrim weather I remember.” Her tone was dry. “Too cold even for vampires, but Nords seem to do just fine.”

Ronan laughed. “That’s why I bought this before I came here.” He tapped his shoulder, indicating his own cloak, made of thick, warm fur.

She frowned. “If you’re not from Skyrim, then where are you from?”

Ronan hesitated, unsure of whether to reveal his roots or not. “Daggerfall,” he said finally.

Serana’s frown deepened, growing more thoughtful. “Why did you come to Skyrim?”

“It’s — it’s not really your concern,” he answered, trying not to sound brusque. “I’d rather not speak of it, if you don’t mind.”

The frown fading, Serana nodded slowly. “Then I suppose we’ll just keep our secrets to ourselves, then,” she said coolly.

Not willing to meet her eyes, Ronan glanced away. After emerging from Dimhollow Crypt, he’d found himself guiding Serana to Dawnstar, where he’d barely succeeded in hiring a boat for the both of them. Unfortunately, the ferryman only brought them half the way, but they’d been lucky enough to find an old jetty with a half-leaky boat nearby that they’d used to get to the island. (“I’m surprised this wreck is still standing,” Serana had said of the dock. “I remember seeing it when I lived here, and it was definitely here before I ever laid eyes on it.”)

Admittedly, Ronan was not entirely sure about his decision. On one hand, he felt better about this course of action than just abandoning her in Dimhollow, but on the other hand, he was far from being unperturbed by the fact that he was traveling with a vampire.

And yet... despite his misgivings, he couldn’t _quite_ feel completely _un_ comfortable with her around. Nocturnal hadn’t said one word to him since leaving Dimhollow, so he could only assume that he was safe... for the time being.

Serana’s wry voice interrupted his thoughts. “Well, this is it. Home, sweet... castle.”

Turning his head, Ronan lifted his eyes and squinted past the snowflakes. His jaw dropped. “ _That’s_ where you live?” he managed. “ _That’s_ your home?”

Looming ahead of them, at the top of a wide stone path flanked with statues of crouching gargoyles, was a massive castle of grey stone. It was a squared-off and utilitarian structure, the only gaps in the walls coming from thin arrow slits and the wall-tops themselves crowned with crenellated battlements, but shrouded by the dusk and the mist and the snow, the castle seemed much more sinister and uninviting.

“Yes, it is.” Serana’s voice was flat. “It — it hasn’t changed much.”

“It’s impressive,” Ronan said wonderingly. “The architecture... it’s more in the style of High Rock than Skyrim. But it’s still an ancient design — then again, most castles in High Rock are,” he said jokingly, “so ‘ancient’ is a bit relative.”

Serana smiled humorlessly. “So is calling Castle Volkihar a ‘home.’” She started up the path, walking past a crumbling stone guard tower nearby the dock.

Ronan followed her, keeping as far away from the statues as he could. He’d encountered similar ones in Dimhollow Crypt, but those had concealed live gargoyles within, and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to another fight with them again.

Serana broke the silence. “So... before we go in there...” Her tone was less sardonic and more weary, even fearful.

“We don’t have to go in there right away if you’re not feeling up to it,” Ronan said as gently as he could, placing a hand on her shoulder out of instinct.

“I’m fine, but... thank you for the sentiment.” Serana turned towards him, and his hand fell from her shoulder as she did so. “I just wanted to thank you for bringing me this far. I know that you probably don’t have much reason to trust me, but I’m grateful for your help anyway.” She sighed. “I’m probably going to have to go my own way after this.”

Not knowing how to respond, Ronan just nodded. “I understand,” he lied.

Serana smiled tiredly. “Just show a little self-control and try not to slaughter everyone inside. Let me do the talking.”

By now, they were before a metal portcullis cutting them off from the main doors, but it rose as Serana stepped up to it. She pulled one of the doors open and ushered Ronan through before closing it behind them both with a hollow _thunk._

Ronan pulled back his hood and took a quick look around. The inside hall was small and dark, but he could see beyond the doorway to the rails of a balcony and dark orange light emanating from a single chandelier.

“How dare you trespass here!” A tall Altmer vampire dressed in armor of grey leather melted out from the shadows, fangs bared in a snarl. “And you think that you can leave with your life, _mortal_?”

“He’s with me, Vingalmo,” Serana said immediately, stepping out in front of Ronan.

Vingalmo stopped his advance. “Serana? Is that truly you?” His eyes widened in what was almost certainly feigned surprise. “I — I can scarce believe it!”

“Neither I,” the other vampire said. “It’s good to see you again.” Her stance and tone, however, indicated otherwise.

Vingalmo rushed to the balcony. “My lord! Everyone!” he called, his voice swelling dramatically. “Serana has returned!”

“I guess they’ve been expecting you,” Ronan said under his breath.

“I’m not surprised.” Serana walked forward to where Vingalmo was, and he eagerly ushered her down a flight of stairs. Ronan followed her, but he paused at the balcony.

The great hall of Castle Volkihar was just as striking as the exterior: high, vaulted ceilings, tile floors, and other, smaller balconies ringing the walls. But much of the hall was hidden in darkness, and the chandelier with its flickering candles that he’d glimpsed earlier provided the only light: a dark orange glow that illuminated the hall’s long tables in awful clarity.

Bloody meat lay on platters, and picked-raw, splintered bones stuck out from bowls. Stains that had long since dried were splattered over the floor and the threadbare carpet. And the vampires — all gleaming-eyed and dressed in dark, courtly armors — milled around the tables; some sipped from goblets of blood, others bent over nearly-dead bodies clothed in rags and drank their fill from there.

Ronan fought down a wave of nausea. _This — this is monstrous._ His eyes went to Serana, descending the stairs on Vingalmo’s arm. _And she — is she like the rest of her kin?_

 _I think that you’ll find that her “kin” are much worse than your dear Serana,_ Nocturnal whispered, startling him out of his stunned state. _Eyes open, Ronan. Even a fox must stay alert in the lion’s den._

Swallowing hard, Ronan followed the two vampires, averting his eyes from the groaning bodies on the tables. As he walked out into the center of the floor, he felt his skin crawled with the gazes of countless pairs of ghastly orange eyes on him: sizing him up, waiting for him to let his guard down.

He caught some movement out of the corner of his eye, and Ronan glanced up towards one of the balconies. A solitary figure, its face and figure shrouded in a hooded cloak of deepest black, stood there in silence, looking out over the hall.

A deep, sonorous voice rang out in the still, measured with the cadence of an orator. “My long-lost daughter returns at last.”

Ronan turned his head in time to see a vampire descend from the highest table and approach them. He was not tall, but instead broad, and his neatly groomed beard and hair were as dark as Serana’s own. His armor was similar in design to Serana’s, but his contained a leather cuirass underneath gleaming pauldrons.

The vampire moved towards them with an animalistic, powerful grace and then paused. With a wave of his hand, Vingalmo bowed his head quickly and retreated.

The other smiled, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “My beloved daughter. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?”

“After all these years, that’s the first thing you ask me?” Serana’s voice was biting, but hurt. “ _Yes_ , I have the scroll. It’s not as though I could have lost it.”

His smile grew a bit more patronizing. “Of _course_ I am delighted to see you, my _dear_ daughter. Must I really say the words aloud?” He sighed. “Ah, if only your traitor mother were here. I would let her watch this happy reunion before putting her head on a spike.”

Serana stiffened, but gave no other outward signs of her anger.

“Now tell me,” her father continued, turning his inhuman eyes to Ronan, “who is this stranger that you have brought into our hall?”

“This is the one who freed me,” Serana said simply.

“Is that so?” Her father nodded approvingly, his smile courtly, but cold. “For my daughter’s safe return, you have my gratitude. Tell me: what is your name?”

“I would know my host’s name first,” Ronan managed, surprised he was able to muster his voice at all.

Serana’s father laughed, but it was more an imitation of the gesture than anything else. “How rare to meet a mortal with manners. Then you will know that I am Harkon, lord of this court — and by now, my daughter will have told you what we are.”

 _Harkon. The leader of the vampires at Dimhollow._ “You’re vampires,” Ronan said flatly.

“Not _just_ vampires. We are among the oldest and most powerful vampires in Skyrim.” Harkon cast his hand around, indicating the hall with a sweeping motion. “For centuries, we have lived here, far from the petty cares of the world. All that ended when my wife betrayed me, and stole away that which I valued most.” His eyes, now dark with remembered hatred and wrath, focused on Serana for an instant.

“But I am sure you did not come here to hear of our bitter tragedy. You have done me a great service, and you must be rewarded accordingly. And there is but one gift I can give that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter: my blood.” He turned back to Ronan, spreading his arms wide. “Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again.”

Ronan’s breath stuck in his throat. Serana stared at Harkon, equal parts shock and disgust reflected in her face. The other vampires whispered amongst themselves, and Vingalmo wrinkled his nose in distaste. And the figure on the balcony watched with a dispassionate, hidden gaze.

 _Do_ not _take it,_ Nocturnal hissed sharply, jerking him out of his surprise.

 _If I refuse, Harkon and his court will probably kill me,_ he retorted. _They won’t want a non-vampire knowing where they make their lair!_

 _Not if I have anything to say about it,_ Nocturnal said, Her voice steely.

He hesitated.

 _Have a little faith, Ronan._ Her tone was softer now, but still held the aura of a command. _Trust in me._

Ronan inhaled, praying he was making the right choice. “No.”

Serana whipped her head around, her eyes disbelieving and afraid. The other vampires were silent now, watching the spectacle eagerly; the figure on the balcony placed its gloved hands on the rails and leaned over slightly to get a glimpse.

Harkon spoke, his voice rising in the still. “Then you are prey, like all mortals.” He smiled cruelly, displaying his fangs. “And prey must be hunted.”

“No!” The cry came from Serana. “You can’t do this; he saved my life —”

“Be silent!” Harkon demanded. “Your word holds no sway here, my daughter. _I_ am the lord of this castle and all _will_ obey me.” He jerked his head towards Vingalmo and another red-bearded vampire, and then pointed at Ronan. “Kill him. Now.”

Ronan slowly backed away as the two vampires stalked towards him. _Nocturnal, if You have a plan, this would be a good time to —_

Suddenly, he felt himself falling backwards, and a chill passed through him. A dark purple void crackled to life around him, enfolding his body and blinding him with darkness, and the last thing Ronan heard before his world faded away was Serana calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan plans his next move — and Fenella plans hers.


	16. The Coming Storm

Ronan jolted awake, gasping in huge gulps of frigid air. Wet flakes fell on his face and all he could see was grey. Then he became conscious of the fact that his back was freezing and hastily sat up, wincing as he felt his head swim and his vision blur.

 _Where am I?_ He grasped at his last memories — Castle Volkihar, Harkon, Nocturnal’s voice ringing — but he couldn’t figure out how any of those had led him to this place. _And more importantly, how did I get here?_

“You!”

Shivering, Ronan peered ahead of him. An indistinct lavender figure stood before him, swathed in darkness. Frowning, he squinted further: the lavender turned to robes, and the darkness turned to a cloak of pale wolf fur.

“I remember you from Windhelm,” the figure said accusingly, stomping forward. Now that it was closer, Ronan saw blonde hair tied back from a round, scarred face. “What are _you_ doing out here?”

“Vigilant Cadarn?” It made sense to him, but at the same time, it didn’t. “I — I might ask you the same question.”

“Don’t try to be clever,” Fenella snapped. “I’ve been tracking the vampires that attacked the Hall, and now _you_ , a lackey of the High Queen, show up at the end of their trail.”

Tolan’s mauled face floated to the forefront of his memories, and Ronan swallowed. “Vigilant... I’m sorry about your father,” he managed.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “How do you know about what happened to him?” she demanded, her hand going to the steel warhammer on her back.

“I was supposed to meet him at Dimhollow. He came to the Dawnguard for aid, and —”

“My father went to the Dawnguard? To _Isran_?” she interrupted, her hand dropping.

“— he didn’t wait for me,” Ronan pressed on as gently as he could. “I’m sorry.”

Fenella scrutinized him. “Did you continue through the crypt — through Dimhollow? Were _you_ the one who killed all those vampires?” she asked, her tone still incredulous.

“Most of them, yes.”

“And that monolith? Was it empty when you were there?” _Now_ she was suspicious.

Ronan nodded, trying to ignore the fear creeping into his mind. “The vampires must have gotten whatever was in there before I arrived,” he lied.

“Damn.” Fenella scowled. “I don’t know what could have been in there, but it couldn’t have been good if those bloodsuckers were looking for it.”

Unbidden, Ronan’s thoughts returned to the Elder Scroll, gleaming on Serana’s back, and how Harkon had asked after it — _more concerned about it than his own daughter,_ he remembered, still unsettled by the vampire lord’s demeanor.

Fenella’s voice cut through his thoughts. “That castle, on the island over the water... is that where the vampires went?” She snorted. “It would suit them.”

 _Castle?_ Ronan’s head whipped around. Sure enough, the dim outline of Castle Volkihar loomed out of the mist and swirling snow in the distance.

He frowned, puzzled, as he looked around, seeing the old jetty that he and Serana had taken the boat from nearby. _I don’t remember getting back here..._

 _That is because I took you into the Evergloam,_ Nocturnal said, almost smugly. _Do not be overly disturbed by your slight memory loss — as the living are not generally in the habit of passing through my realm, I put your mind asleep so that you would not be claimed by the shadows._

Ronan gaped for an instant before shutting his mouth, remembering that Fenella was still nearby.

 _You are welcome,_ Nocturnal prompted.

“Well?” Fenella asked impatiently.

Shaking his head as if to rid himself of his questions, Ronan turned to her. “Yes. The vampires went there, but — wait!” he called as Fenella started striding away. “You can’t go in there! There’s too many of them; I barely made it out alive!”

She stopped and stared at him coolly. “It’s not as though I have much left to live for,” she said bitingly. “If I die fighting those monsters, it would be better than dying as prey.”

“You can’t even get over to the island —” Ronan shut his mouth abruptly, remembering that the boat he and Serana had commandeered was still tied up to the castle’s docks. _Hopefully, she doesn’t ask questions about how I got back here without a boat._

Fenella only pointed at a rowboat that had been dragged up onto the shore among the scrubby vegetation. “Considering I came here by boat, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” She dug her heels in and started pushing the boat into the water. “Are you coming or not?”

“Vigilant Cadarn,” he tried again. “Don’t do this. You’re going to die.”

“And I already told you, I don’t particularly care about that.” She leapt over the side and into the boat, seizing the oars and gaining control of the craft as it floated out. “Unless you want to come with me, I suggest that you start walking back to Isran.” Fenella smiled humorlessly. “I don’t think he’ll be too happy to hear what you have to say.”

 

“I don’t suppose you have some good news for me,” Isran said darkly, crossing his arms.

Ronan swallowed. He felt very isolated out in the center of the main hall of Fort Dawnguard, and Isran’s glowering wasn’t making him feel any more comfortable. “Not exactly.”

Isran sighed irritably. “Of course. Why would I have supposed differently?” He waved a hand. “Fine. Just tell me. I don’t suppose Tolan survived Dimhollow, did he?” he added as an afterthought.

Ronan shook his head. “Vigilant Tolan arrived before I did, but he didn’t wait for me.”

“Figures. Damn fool.” Despite his harsh words, there was no anger in them. “Did you find what the vampires were looking for, then?”

“A woman,” Ronan said carefully. “She was trapped in the tomb.”

The whole way back — from the walk to Solitude, to the carriage ride from there to Riften, and then the last walk to Fort Dawnguard — Ronan had been thinking over everything had happened. He’d concluded that several omissions would be necessary, among them Harkon’s offer and Nocturnal’s hand in his escape; while he suspected that Isran didn’t agree with the Vigil on many things, Ronan guessed that Isran would still be more than happy to strike down anyone involved with the Daedra, let alone someone who’d been offered vampirism.

Isran’s eyebrows went up. “Who is she? And more importantly, _where_ is she?” At Ronan’s silence, he scowled. “She’s a vampire, I take it.”

“Yes,” Ronan confessed.

“And you delivered her right to them.” It was not a question, but an accusation.

Ignoring him, Ronan took in a deep breath before continuing. “There’s more. The vampire in Dimhollow —” _Serana_ , he reminded himself “— had an Elder Scroll.”

“They _what_?” Isran’s glare could have scorched holes in the stone. “And you didn’t stop her? You didn’t secure the scroll? Dammit, boy, I thought you were at least half-competent — unlike that farm boy you brought with you.”

“There were too many vampires,” Ronan defended himself. “I barely made it out of Dimhollow alive, let alone their lair.”

 “So they have everything they wanted, and we’re left with nothing,” Isran growled, ignoring him. “By the Divines, this couldn’t get much worse. An attack on the fort, and now this...”

“An attack?” Ronan echoed. “On Fort Dawnguard?”

Isran smiled grimly. “Just a small scouting party. Celann and one of the High Queen’s people took care of them, but if they’re bold enough to attack us here, I’m going to need more men: _better_ men.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There are some people I’ve worked with over the years.... we’re going to need their skills and talents if we’re going to take those vampires down. If they can be found, we’ll have a fighting chance.”

“Where do you think they are?” Ronan asked. “Are they even in Skyrim?”

Isran snorted. “Oh, so after your fuck-up at Dimhollow, you think _you’re_ going to be the one to go on this mission?”

Ronan flushed angrily. “With all due respect, I don’t think anyone could have seen _that_ turn of events. I did what I could, and I got out alive. How many of your other recruits could say the same as I?”

Isran stared at him for a moment, and then guffawed. “You got quite a chip on your shoulder, Sorleigh. If this was the Vigil, that attitude wouldn’t stand, but in the Dawnguard...” He sobered a bit. “It’s the ones who don’t take orders who make a difference.”

Ronan blinked. “So... am I going to handle this?” he asked tentatively.

“Not alone, you’re not,” Isran warned. “One: you still fucked up, and while I’m not real impressed that you’re here to tell the tale of your failure, you’re still more capable than the recruits who can’t handle a crossbow to save their lives. And two: if the vampires know where we are, I’m not sending anyone out without backup.”

His assessment stung, but Ronan accepted it. “Who’ll come with me?”

“The High Queen sent some guardsmen down a day or so ago with some wise-cracking Bosmer in charge.” Isran snorted again. “Not exactly professional, but at least he knows how to fight. He’ll go with you.”

Ronan frowned, the description sounding unnervingly familiar. “Do you know his name?”

As if on cue, footsteps echoed out from one of the hallways. Both Isran and Ronan turned to see Finverior emerge into the entryway, clad in the armor of the Dawnguard with his customary lewd smirk on his face.

Finverior’s grin grew wider. “Ah, my dear, broody friend. Did you miss me?”

 

“Will you not drink, my daughter?” Harkon extended a goblet filled with blood to her, almost genteelly. “You must be thirsty after your... _imprisonment_.”

Sitting upright in the throne at her father’s side, Serana shook her head. “I took dinner in my room, _before_ you summoned me here,” she said tartly.

Harkon raised an eyebrow. “And stay away from your court, after you have been away for so long? Hardly behavior befitting of the lady of the castle.”

“They’re hardly _my_ court,” she retorted, “but rather _yours_.”

Out of all the vampires she’d seen at Castle Volkihar since returning, Serana’d only recognized three that she remembered from before: Garan Marethi, Orthjolf, and Vingalmo; the first, she was relieved to see, but she was considerably less thrilled about the latter two. Everyone else milling around the tables in the great hall was a stranger to her. _My father did well to..._ replace _the court members loyal to my mother, it seemed,_ she thought grimly.

Harkon laughed softly. “Your tongue has not been dulled by the passage of time, my daughter. While it is true that I may lead our clan, you are our figurehead: a hope for our future. Such a role still holds importance.”

“We both know that the real figurehead here is the Elder Scroll, not me,” she snapped. The Scroll was back in her quarters, locked away in a case that she had the only key to; Serana hadn’t liked leaving it there, but she didn’t want to invite any more attention from the court than she already had. It felt so strange to have it removed from her back, yet still feel its burden. “As long as you have it, you wouldn’t give a damn about me.”

“Such notions you hold,” Harkon mused, taking a sip from his own goblet. “Never forget, my dear, that you are still my daughter, and the blood running through our veins makes us superior to all of these... _sycophants_ of mine in every way.” He idly waved a hand towards the other vampires in the hall. “You are as rare and unique as the Elder Scroll you bear.”

“I’m no more than an object to you: a pawn, a means to an end,” Serana countered, “and all your praise and honeyed words won’t change that!”

Too late, she heard her words echoing against the stones, and she realized that the entire hall had fallen silent. The court members glanced up, orange eyes peering curiously towards the high table for the source of the shouting.

Harkon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you are still so very rebellious, my daughter,” he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “You may be the lady of this castle, but you still need to learn your place.”

Suddenly, the sound of the front doors slamming shut resounded in the great hall, and the court members’ heads swiveled in the other direction. Grateful for the new distraction, Serana followed their gaze towards the top of the staircase. Two vampires — _Salonia and Stalf,_ she recognized, dimly recalling Garan making introductions to the “new” court members last evening — descended the staircase, dragging a bloodied, but struggling figure between them.

Scowling, Harkon stood. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” he demanded.

“A thousand apologies, my lord,” Salonia said quickly, somehow managing to curtsy contritely as she and Stalf towed the prisoner into the center of the hall, “but I was on watch and I caught this mortal skulking around the —”

“Liar!” Stalf accused, hurling the figure down to the tile as he pointed at the other vampire in rage. “ _I_ caught the mortal down at the dock and asked _you_ to —”

“QUIET!” Harkon thundered, slamming his fist on the table. “Another word from either of you, and I rip out your tongues!”

Thoroughly cowed, a silent Salonia and Stalf retreated back a few steps.

Serana watched as the prisoner, a slight Breton woman, slowly struggled to her feet, lifting her head to stare murderously at the high table with eyes like chips of ice. The color of her robes and cloak were almost indiscernible from the amount of filth and dried blood caked on them, and her blonde hair hung lank and loose around her face; whoever she was, she’d already been in a bad state before being beaten by Salonia and Stalf.

Harkon finally seated himself, leaning back indolently. “Who are you, mortal, to be so bold as to enter my hall?”

Her glare intensified. “Fenella Cadarn, Vigilant of Stendarr.”

Harkon chuckled, low and sinister. “So, the Vigil is not wiped out after all. I always had doubts about Lokil’s capabilities.” He folded his hands before him. “Tell me then, Vigilant Cadarn: why do you risk your life coming here?”

“Because I don’t care much about my life anymore,” she spat, “and if I take out a few of you bloodsuckers on my way out, all the better.”

Harkon sighed, unimpressed. “The bravado of mortals is admirable, but pitiful.” He gestured towards Salonia and Stalf again. “Finish what Lokil started.”

Serana frowned. Something about this... this _Vigilant_ was setting her on edge, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. “Maybe you might want to be a little more careful about this,” she murmured to Harkon. “She doesn’t seem —”

Harkon laughed dismissively. “I never knew you had such sensitivity to the plight of mortals, my daughter. What is another life of theirs to one who has lived a hundred lifetimes?”

Serana was about to answer when a choked scream from the center of the floor captured her attention instantly. Her head whipped about just in time to see Salonia falling dead to the floor and the Vigilant whirling around, a single steel dagger flashing in her hand.

Snarling, Stalf lunged for the Vigilant, but she lurched to one side, just barely avoiding him. Stalf turned around, stalking forward with one hand summoning a ball of lighting, and the Vigilant leapt at him. Both of them fell to the floor as the Vigilant’s dagger drove into Stalf’s chest.

Suddenly, Fenella stiffened as her body rose into the air, her feet kicking just above the tile. Serana watched, eyes wide with shock, as a tall figure shrouded in a hooded black cloak glided out onto the hall floor, one curled, gloved hand raised as if holding the Vigilant there.

 _I’ve never seen a Telekinesis spell that strong and sustained for so long._ “Who is that?” she whispered, almost to herself. _I saw him earlier, but Garan declined to introduce me... but with power like that, he must be a very ancient vampire..._

Harkon heard her and smiled. “That, my daughter, is the power that will lead us to victory.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, the figure loosened its grip, and the Vigilant fell, crumpling to the tile. Instead of swarming forward to finish the Vigilant off, the vampires who’d been watching the battle shrunk back instead, glancing fearfully at the figure.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Orthjolf rasped, breaking the silence. “Kill her!”

The figure spoke then, his voice like a blade shearing through silk. “With your leave, Lord Harkon, I would claim the life of this prisoner.”

“For what purpose?” Harkon asked, though his tone indicated his lack of interest.

Seizing the Vigilant by the shoulder, the figure hauled her to her feet. “Our Lord has sent us a sign: this woman, touched by His power.” Though Serana could not see his face, she heard the triumphant smile in his voice. “And she will help bring about the end of what we fear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Finverior set out to find Gunmar and Sorine.


	17. Searching

“Your... _greeting_ was uncalled for,” Ronan finally muttered, stomping along. 

Finverior glanced over, a look of feigned innocence on his face. “It _had_ been a while, Sorleigh. You can’t fault me for being excited to see you again.”

Ronan sighed huffily. “One, you kissed me _on the mouth_ — in front of Isran, no less.” _As if he needed any more reason to doubt me._ “And two, that’s bullshit. It’s only been about a week, and besides, you knew where I was.”

The sun was starting to sink behind the snowy mountains in the distance, and the two of them were navigating through the brilliant-leaved trees of the Rift’s forest in search of Isran’s acquaintances, two in particular. After snapping at Finverior to “restrain himself for five seconds,” Isran had briefly filled them in on the details; one, Sorine Jurard, was a scholar of the Dwemer with a knack for tinkering, and the other, Gunmar, was a former vampire hunter with a talent for taming animals. 

“They might take a little convincing, but they’ll come around,” Isran had told them gruffly. “I don’t know exactly where Gunmar is — could be anywhere in Skyrim — but last I heard, Jurard was out in the Reach, hunting for some dwarven ruin. With any luck, the vampires won’t have gotten to them first.” This last sentence was punctuated with a glare at Ronan. 

Just remembering it made Ronan’s mouth dry with discomfort. _If Isran doesn’t let me join the Dawnguard... I’ll have nowhere to go. If the Thalmor really are hunting me, then there’s nowhere outside of Skyrim that I’ll be at least partly safe._

With a pang in his heart, his thoughts turned to Jolaine. _Why was she even working for the Thalmor in the first place? Why did she try to warn me about Valmir — and then try to have me killed?_

Finverior chuckled. “Relax, sunshine; a little romance might be what you need to lighten up a bit. Though I admit, I wasn’t expecting you to run off and join some vampire hunters. You have a death wish or something?”

Ronan shrugged tiredly, not finding the words to answer him. 

“But if it makes you feel any better, Sorleigh, I didn’t come to Fort Dawnguard with a pack of Windhelm guardsmen just to sweep you up in my arms,” Finverior continued. “The High Queen kind of ordered me to, in light of recent events.”

“You mean the attempt on my life that you were involved in?” Ronan said with a touch of acid. “I hope you mentioned that part.”

“In case you’ve forgotten already, you handsome ingrate, I _saved_ your life,” Finverior pointed out with a grin. “But apparently, you’re considered enough of a threat that the former First Emissary to Skyrim is ordering your death.”

Ronan stopped in his tracks. “ _What?_ ” He wasn’t sure whether to feel afraid at how obsessed the Thalmor were in him, or relieved at the prospect that Jolaine might not have been as involved as Finverior had made her out to be. _But either way, things are much worse for me than I thought._

“I thought that would get your attention,” Finverior continued blithely. “Anyway, the High Queen wants you to pay her a visit as soon as possible, and I’m supposed to escort you back — although, considering this mess that you’ve gotten yourself into, ‘as soon as possible’ might not be for a while,” he added. 

Ronan was about to answer when he heard the sound of a bear snarling somewhere nearby. “Did you hear that?” he asked. 

“Kind of hard to miss,” Finverior said sarcastically. “But considering we’re near a cave...” He trailed off, gesturing to his side. “Well, it’s not exactly a surprise.”

Ronan craned his head to see. Not far off from where they were standing, nearly obscured by a pine tree, was the low-ceilinged, narrow entrance of a cave. There was something dark and hulking moving by it, and Ronan squinted through the falling dusk to see that it was indeed a bear, up on its hind legs and roaring at a broad figure swinging at it with a sword. 

In an instant, Ronan pulled his crossbow off his back, loaded a bolt, and started to take aim at the bear. 

“Ah, Sorleigh,” Finverior interjected, “maybe it wouldn’t be wise to play the hero right about now —”

Ronan fired. The bolt hissed through the air and burrowed itself into the bear’s side. Growling in pain, the beast turned to see who had wounded it, and at that moment, the figure drove its sword into the bear’s chest. The animal fell, its body hitting the forest floor with a _thud_.

“Or you can just ignore me,” Finverior finished. 

Lowering his crossbow, Ronan peered towards the figure who had been fighting the bear. “The bear’s definitely dead, but I think he might be hurt.” 

He sheathed his crossbow again and started off; after a moment, he heard Finverior running behind him. As the two of them drew closer, Ronan could better see the figure. It was a Nord man with a ragged red beard, clad in scale armor with a steel sword at his side. 

The Nord looked up as they approached, a hand raised to ward them off. “Stay back, now; there’s still another bear in that cave. I’ve been tracking the damned thing for two weeks and I’m not going to let it have any more victims.”

“A thank-you might be nice,” Finverior muttered under his breath.

The Nord laughed, a short bark of a laugh. “A healing potion would be better, elf, if you have any of those.” He touched his other forearm, soaked in blood from the slashes of the bear’s claws. 

Finverior glanced over at Ronan, who shook his head. “I don’t have any left after my last mission,” Ronan said. “You don’t happen to know any restoration magic, do you?”

Finverior quirked up an eyebrow. “You’re in luck, sunshine.” Summoning a golden orb in one hand, he focused his magic on the Nord’s wound for a minute before letting the orb wink out. “That should help,” he said before glancing back at Ronan. “You seriously don’t know any basic spells? I thought you Bretons were good at magic.”

Ronan bit back a retort. _First Isran, now Finverior… is there anyone in Skyrim who_ won’t _criticize my capabilities?_

Fortunately, the Nord spoke. “My thanks.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Gunmar. Who might you two be?”

“ _Gunmar?_ ” Ronan couldn’t believe their luck. _Less than a day out of Fort Dawnguard and we stumble across him._ “Isran sent us to find you —”

“Isran?” Gunmar snorted. “Lad, don’t talk to me about Isran. He and I were through a long time ago.”

“Well, that’s a promising start to things,” Finverior murmured dryly.

“But he needs your help,” Ronan insisted. 

“Isran, needing someone else’s help?” Gunmar chuckled humorlessly. “Never thought I’d hear that.” He sobered. “Well, I’m afraid he’s a few years too late. As you can see, I’ve moved on. Besides,” he added darkly, “he assured me that he could handle anything. What could Isran _possibly_ need my help with?”

“Would the fact that we’re up against vampires change anything?” Ronan asked desperately. 

Gunmar stared at him incredulously. “Vampires, you say? Well, I — I wasn’t expecting that,” he confessed. 

“And here I thought you were a vampire hunter,” Finverior interjected. “Surely you know that Isran hasn’t exactly given up the fight.” 

“Of _course_ I know that; the man’s more stubborn than a bull,” Gunmar scoffed. “What’s going on with these vampires, then?”

“We’re not quite sure,” Ronan said carefully, “but they have an Elder Scroll.”

Finverior glanced over at him, aghast and, for once, at a loss for words. “You could have mentioned _that_ detail earlier, sunshine,” he managed. “That’s rather crucial, don’t you think?”

“By the Eight,” Gunmar swore, rubbing his brow. “Alright, I’ll admit that you have a point, but I can’t just leave this bear to prey on more innocents. Once it’s dealt with, maybe then I’ll see what Isran expects me to do about this.”

“Do you need help with that bear?” Ronan asked. 

Gunmar chuckled grimly, yanking his sword out of the dead bear at his feet. “Lad, that’s what I was getting at.”

 

If the bear they’d encountered outside the cave was large, the bear still lurking inside was even more massive and twice as mean; Ronan had no trouble believing that the bear had killed before. In the end, it’d taken a couple of bolts from Ronan, about a dozen well-placed arrows from Finverior, and some hacking and slashing on Gunmar’s part to bring it down.

“It looks like I’ll have to thank you again. Don’t know how well I would have managed by myself.” Gunmar carefully wiped the blood off his sword before sheathing it. “Now that that’s over, I suppose the least I can do is see what Isran wants. He’s still at that old fort near Stendarr’s Beacon, I assume?”

“Fort Dawnguard, yes.” Ronan frowned. “How do you know about it?”

Gunmar snorted. “Like I said: more stubborn than a bull. He’s been working on that wreck for years now, and being mighty secretive about it at that.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll get to see what he’s been up to after all this time.”

“Before you go... you wouldn’t happen to know where Sorine Jurard is, would you?” the Ronan ventured. 

“Isran asked you to find her as well?” When Ronan nodded, Gunmar laughed. “Good luck trying to recruit her. She’s a smart girl, but very temperamental. Left at about the same time I did for the same grievances.”

“Troubles with Isran, I take it?” Finverior remarked from where he was crouched; he was rifling through the deteriorating pockets of a nearby skeleton with a small salvaged pile of coins beside him. “The man seems to have a talent for alienating people.”

“But do you know where she is?” Ronan pressed. 

Gunmar sighed. “Last I heard from her, she was heading out to Dragon Bridge. Divines only know _what_ she’s doing out there, but she won’t take kindly to her research being interrupted.”

 

“You haven’t seen a pouch of Dwarven gyros laying around, have you?” the Breton woman anxiously asked them as soon as Ronan and Finverior approached. “I could have _sworn_ I left it right here...” She trailed off, running one hand through her bobbed red hair. “Do you think mudcrabs might have taken it? I saw one the other day; I wouldn’t be surprised if it followed me here.”

“Great: a paranoid Dwewer scholar,” Finverior muttered under his breath. “Why can’t I ever meet halfway-normal people in my line of work?”

The two of them had followed up on Gunmar’s tip, returning to Riften and hiring a carriage to Solitude; they’d passed by Windhelm on the way, and Ronan had to promise the Finverior that he’d go see Kajsa on their way back in lieu of stopping now. Once they’d arrived at Solitude, they’d spent the night in the inn in two separate rooms, much to Ronan’s relief and Finverior’s disappointment (though Ronan was fairly sure that his companion had found someone else to share his bed with, judging by the sounds that had filtered through the walls). In the morning, they’d set off down the road to Dragon Bridge, and after reaching the town and asking around a bit, they’d discovered that Sorine had passed through a day ago, but had turned off the road and headed west. After following the river, Ronan and Finverior had finally come across a small camp by some rusted dwarven piping.

Ronan ignored him. “Sorine Jurard?”

The Breton frowned. “Yes, that’s me. Why are you here?”

“Isran asked us to find you,” he answered. “He needs your help.”

“Isran needs _my_ help?” Sorine echoed slowly, her lips pursing. “No, I think you must be mistaken,” she decided snippily, placing both hands on her hips. “He made it _exceedingly_ clear the last time we spoke that he had no interest in my help, and I find it incredibly hard to believe he’s changed his mind. He said some very hurtful things to me before I left,” she added with a sniff. 

Ronan was surprised at her vehemence. “You two had a falling-out as well?”

“Yes, that was my point; I thought I was rather clear,” she snapped. “Look, what is it you want from me?”

“Vampires are threatening Skyrim, darling,” Finverior drawled. “That’s why Isran needs your help.”

Sorine huffed, throwing up her hands. “And _now_ Isran remembers that I proposed no less than _three_ scenarios — all of them _completely plausible_ — involving vampires overrunning the population! That short-sighted stubborn ass —!”

“Did any of them include the vampires having an Elder Scroll?” Finverior asked wryly. 

Sorine’s brow wrinkled. “I — well — that’s actually something I _didn’t_ anticipate,” she confessed. “I’m not exactly sure what they would do with one, mind you, but Isran’s probably correct in thinking that it wouldn’t be good.”

“So you’ll help us?” Ronan questioned. 

Sorine sighed. “Look, I _suppose_ it wouldn’t hurt to find out more about this so I can better defend myself, but I’m not just going to abandon my work. It’s far too important. I just need one intact dwarven gyro, _one_! You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?” she asked hopefully. 

Ronan shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” He glanced over at Finverior. “Do you?”

Finverior chuckled. “Am I bailing your ass out on this mission or what?” He dug in his satchel, pulling out a small pouch. 

“Hey, that’s mine!” Sorine protested, snatching it from him. “Did _you_ take it?”

“It was lying on the riverbank downstream, and I just happened to pick it up,” Finverior defended. “Blame the damn mudcrabs, sweetheart, not me.”

Sorine didn’t look especially convinced, but as she checked the pouch’s contents, her scowl turned to a half-smile. “This’ll help me a great deal with my research. It’s a good thing I didn’t _really_ lose it.”

“What are you researching?” Ronan asked out of curiosity. _It must have_ some _impact on the Dawnguard, or else Isran wouldn’t have sent us to find her._

“None of your business,” she said archly, tying the pouch onto her belt. “Now where is it that Isran expects me to go?”

“Fort Dawnguard. It’s east of Riften, near —”

“— Stendarr’s Beacon, yes,” Sorine finished. “So he’s been working more on his secret hideout, has he? It’ll be interesting to see how much progress he’s made.” She turned away and started back towards her camp. “I’ll pack up here and meet you there as soon as I can.”

 

“Did you take the gyros, or did you really find them?” Ronan asked skeptically as soon as they were out of earshot. 

“Believe it or not, sunshine, I just found them.” Finverior kicked a pebble along the riverbank. “It probably just fell out of her pack somewhere along the way. Mudcrabs had nothing to do with it,” he added, chuckling. 

“Do you really think that Gunnar and Sorine will make some kind of a difference?” Ronan asked. “Just those two people?”

Finverior shrugged. “Who knows. The Dawnguard’s numbers are still pretty small, and since I _am_ a betting man, I’d wager that only the senior members — Isran, Durak, Celann, and the like — have ever fought vampires before. Not sure how the other recruits will do.”

“ _I’ve_ fought vampires,” Ronan objected. 

“But _you’re_ not a member of the Dawnguard yet, sunshine,” Finverior countered with a grin. “And to be honest, I’d be surprised if Isran let you in. I’m not trying to offend you,” he defended himself upon seeing Ronan’s glare. “You seem sufficiently morally upright and you’re a decent shot, but you clearly haven’t done much fighting in close quarters.” He laughed. “By-product of being a thief, I’m afraid.”

“Not to mention that Isran ha — _is suspicious_ of me,” Ronan corrected himself hastily. _“Hate” may be a strong word, but Isran seems to hate a lot of things._

Finverior shrugged. “To be fair, Isran’s not exactly friendly and welcoming to begin with. Tell you what, sunshine,” he continued, “I’ll try to put in a good word for you with Isran when we get back. Something tells me you’re really keen on having an excuse to stay inside Skyrim’s borders and avoid the Dominion as much as possible.” He sighed dramatically. “I, unfortunately have no such excuse, seeing as I’m still in the High Queen’s employ.”

Despite his tenseness, Ronan smiled. “I’d appreciate that.”

“ _But —_ ” Finverior raised a finger “— before we sally off to Fort Dawnguard, you and I are going to pay a little visit to the High Queen. And no more putting it off, because it’s my ass and my job on the line if you do, and I actually don’t mind my job.”

Ronan sighed irritably. “Why is she so interested in seeing me?” _I’d have thought she never wanted to lay eyes on my face again._

“ _That_ , sunshine, is a question you’ll have to ask her,” Finverior responded enigmatically. “But if I know the High Queen as well as I think I do, it’ll be she that’s asking most of the questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa have an uncomfortable conversation.


	18. Private Conversation

When Ronan entered the High Queen’s chambers with no small amount of trepidation, she was standing before the hearth: silhouetted against the flames, her back to him with her hands folded in front of her. He might have thought that Kajsa hadn’t heard him come in, but he knew better.

Kajsa spoke before he even had a chance to open his mouth. “I see that you received my message, Sorleigh.”

“Yes,” he said, shifting his feet and hoping that the last of the snow had already fallen away from his boots. “I tried to come to Windhelm as soon as I could, but —”

“There’s no need to lie,” she cut him off smoothly, turning around. “I can’t imagine that you would want to speak to me, all things considered.” Kajsa smiled wryly. “Believe me, I want to have this conversation even less than you do.”

Ronan returned the gesture, albeit a bit shakily. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Go ahead.” She gestured casually to one of the chairs near the hearth as she walked to a nearby table with some goblets and a bottle on it. “Spiced wine?”

Seating himself hastily, Ronan shook his head.

Kajsa poured some for herself and then returned to the fireside, taking a seat in the other chair. She wore a plain grey-green dress with a fur-trimmed surcoat over it, befitting of a noblewoman, but the steeliness in her eyes was decidedly less than ladylike.

Leaning back in her chair, Kajsa sipped from her wine. “Do you know why I asked Finverior to find you?” she asked.

“Because of the attempt on my life?” he guessed.

She shrugged. “Partly. It was more because of the one who apparently ordered it.”

“The Dominion’s former First Emissary to Skyrim,” Ronan finished, remembering the title. “What can you tell me about them?”

“Quite a bit,” Kajsa said darkly. “Elenwen was one of the most feared Justiciars during the Great War, and after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, she served as the First Emissary to Skyrim. She was in charge of the Thalmor’s operations in Skyrim until my husband and I pushed into Haafingar during the Civil War — and then she fled before she could be killed.”

Ronan frowned. “Why did she order my death, then? And — and why involve Jolaine?” He tried to keep his voice steady.

“Unless Elenwen’s working behind the Dominion’s back, I can’t think of how she got the authority to do so; my intelligence had said that she was stripped of her position after returning to Alinor and just barely escaped execution.” Her tone was acidic. “Obviously, Elenwen must have done something to make the Dominion change their mind about her.”

“Like spearheading searches for artifacts?” Ronan suggested.

“Perhaps,” she mused, taking another sip of her wine. “I’ve asked Arch-Mage Alassë to look into locations of any remaining Dragon Priest masks; if my people find them first, I can beat the Thalmor at their game, whatever that game might be.” Kajsa smiled slightly, but it faded. “As for Guildmaster Marat... she was very forthcoming about her previous dealings with the Dominion when I questioned her following her return of the peace treaty. Finverior and I both think that’s why she’s in trouble with the Thalmor now — and why you’re here.”

“Why I’m here?” Ronan echoed.

“Why you were sent to Skyrim,” Kajsa said matter-of-factly. “Why there were assassins sent after you. You were walking blackmail to be used against Marat, and the only reason the Thalmor are still trying to kill you, even after Valmir’s death, is that they know it will keep Marat in line.”

 _The Thalmor are using me against her._ Swallowing, Ronan looked down at his hands, curled around one another in his lap. _As long as I’m alive… she’ll never be free of them._

“How well did you know Marat?” Kajsa asked, her tone a little less harsh.

“I — I thought I knew her well,” he managed, still not meeting her eyes. “She was my teacher, my friend, my lover...” His voice broke. “I thought there were no secrets between us... I suppose that I was wrong.”

Kajsa said nothing for a moment. Then: “Sometimes, people surprise you... only it’s not the kind of surprise you hope for.”

“People like Mercer,” Ronan said flatly, drawing conclusions. 

“Yes, people like Mercer,” she agreed, setting her goblet down on the small table beside her. “Still seeking information about him?” Her voice was tight and bitter once more. 

“Not actively. But... while I’m here...” His voice faltered. “What did he seem like to you? I’ve heard from Brynjolf and Karliah, but nothing from you.”

Her gaze was stony now. “I didn’t know him well enough to form an opinion.”

Ronan frowned. There was something about the way that Kajsa denied it that made it seem... untrue. _Is she lying? Why?_

 _Not exactly,_ Nocturnal purred. _I prefer to term it “withholding information.”_

_Then what is she not saying?_

Kajsa noticed his momentary confusion and smiled grimly. “Still hearing Nocturnal, then? Might I ask what wicked gossip she’s whispering in your ear this time?”

Ronan nodded, not rising to the bait. “I — I think I’m getting used to it though.”

“I wouldn’t,” she warned lightly. “Daedric Princes do not lend their aid for free.”

“So I’ve been told,” Ronan said sarcastically. 

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just speaking from experience. Just be grateful it’s only one and not multiple.” Kajsa fetched her wine again to take another drink. “I heard from Finverior that you decided to join the Dawnguard.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, not knowing what else to say. 

“Have you found out what’s behind these vampire attacks?” she asked. “Reports from the other holds keep coming in at an alarming rate; I’d like to give them a better answer about what my husband and I are going to do about it than just a vague promise of assistance.”

“Not really,” Ronan said. “Right now, we’re just as much in the dark as you.”

“Tell me what you know.”

Ronan hesitated, weighing the decision before saying anything. “The vampires are part of a single... _clan,_ if you could call it that. They’re living in an ancient castle on an island in the Ghost Sea, to the north of Solitude, and they seem to be under the command of a vampire named Harkon.”

Kajsa scrutinized him. “Did you meet these vampires?”

“I was there with another vampire of Harkon’s court. She’d been entombed in a crypt in the mountains between Whiterun Hold and the Pale, and the other vampires had been looking for her.” He braced himself for the scathing diatribe. 

Fortunately, all he received was a single eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Interesting way to gain access,” she said sardonically. “But why were they seeking her?” 

“I don’t exactly know, but... she had an Elder Scroll with her.”

 _That_ got Kajsa’s attention. “An _Elder Scroll?_ Gods and Daedra, _why_ must they keep resurfacing?” She sighed irritably. “And I suppose now the vampires have said Elder Scroll?”

“It’s not like I could have stopped them from taking it, let alone you or Isran or anyone else without dying,” Ronan said defensively. “It’s only thanks to Nocturnal that I got out alive.”

Kajsa laughed. “Ah, but most people aren’t Daedric Champions _and_ the Dragonborn.” She sobered. “So what’s the Dawnguard’s next move? Recruiting men?”

“More or less. I’m actually heading back there soon; hopefully, my efforts will please Isran.” He couldn’t keep a tinge of frustration out of his voice. 

“So you weren’t lying when you said you had no intention of going back to Daggerfall,” Kajsa mused. 

 _Why am I not surprised that she doubted my word?_ “It’s not safe for me there any longer,” he said haltingly. “I — I thought I’d stay in Skyrim. Fight vampires, do some good... just start again.”

Surprisingly, she smiled. “Liberating, isn’t it?” Kajsa’s gaze drifted to the fire. “Unfortunately, one’s past always has a way of catching up in the end.”

He was silent. 

“Just be careful, Sorleigh.” Her eyes were dark. “Once you’ve gotten the attention of the Dominion, it’s hard to lose it.”

 

“Nice to see you back, sunshine.” Finverior clapped him on the back. “I wish I could say it’s been quiet around here without you, but there’s actually been quite the hustle and bustle while you were off having your little rendezvous with the High Queen.”

“Did Gunmar and Sorine get here already?” Ronan asked, surprised. While he’d stopped in Windhelm, Finverior had continued on to Fort Dawnguard to meet up with the two they’d recruited for Isran.

“Yeah, that was this morning. Durak and the others were already hard at work with the recruits and the fortifications and such before then.” He gestured around the main hall. “Actually, I’m on my way out. The crazy Dwemer lady’s roped me into running an errand for her. Says it’ll help her with this crossbow design she’s been working on.”

 _So_ that’s _why Isran wanted her..._ “Do you need any backup?” he asked.

Finverior chuckled. “I appreciate your eagerness, handsome, but I’m supposed to be taking along this Nord from Winterhold — Ranmir, I think his name is. Besides,” he added, “Isran was looking for you, and I don’t think you should keep him waiting.”

Ronan frowned. _Alright, I’m glad I’m not going._ “Why? Is it about the mission?” 

“Nah. See,” Finverior continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “some vampire showed up here while we we’re gone, and apparently, she was asking for you.” For once, his manner was somewhat serious. “And Isran is none too thrilled that she’s here, so if you know who this vampire is and what she wants, you should probably go find him before he does something drastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Serana arrives with a warning.


	19. Reunion

The alcove that Isran had led him to was cramped and not well-lit, but Ronan could still see the bloodstains — some still fresh — on the floor and walls. He felt his stomach turn slightly as he noticed the bag of torture tools unfurled on the nearby table and the bleached, fanged skulls lining one of the shelves. _Gods... if I had any doubts about what kind of a man Isran was, they’ve surely been settled now._

Mouth tight and shoulders stiff, Isran finally stopped walking and turned around to face Ronan. “This vampire showed up while you were away.” He jabbed his thumb towards Serana, standing in the shadows by a well-used torture rack. “I’m guessing it’s the one you found in Dimhollow.”

All Ronan could do was nod as he stared at Serana in disbelief. She didn’t seem injured, but her eyes were urgent, almost frantic.

“Said it had something important to tell you,” Isran continued gruffly, crossing his arms. “So spit it out.” This last scathing statement was directed towards Serana.

“Isran,” Ronan tried, his gaze still on Serana, “if you wouldn’t mind giving us a —”

“Oh, I mind,” Isran interrupted. “You may get results, but I don’t trust you wholly, Sorleigh. So _if you_ _wouldn’t mind_ , I’m staying here.”

Swallowing, Ronan focused his attention back to Serana. “Hello,” he said finally, not knowing what else to say.

“Hello yourself.” She smiled wryly. “You probably weren’t expecting to see me again.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he confessed. “What are you doing here? Fort Dawnguard isn’t exactly a safe place for a vampire.”

“I’d rather not be here either, but I needed to talk to you. And yes, it is important, so please: listen before your _friend_ loses his patience.” Serana shot a meaningful glance at a glowering Isran.

“What is it?”

Serana sighed. “Well... it’s about me. And the Elder Scroll that was buried with me.” She tapped the jeweled case on her back. “But it’s mostly about the reason I was down there and why I had the Elder Scroll in the first place. And it all comes back to my father.” Her tone turned dry. “I’m guessing you figured this part out already, but my father’s not exactly a good person. Even by vampire standards.”

Isran raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“He wasn’t always like that, though. There was... a turn.” Her face fell, remembering. “He stumbled onto this obscure prophecy and just — just lost himself in it.”

Ronan frowned. “What do you mean, ‘lost himself’?”

“He became absorbed — _obsessed_. It was — it was sick.” Serana wearily pushed her hair back from her face. “The prophecy said that there would come a time when vampires would no longer need to fear the sun. For someone who fancied himself as vampire royalty, the message was pretty seductive.” She sighed heavily. “Anyway, my mother and I didn’t feel like inviting a war with all of Tamriel, so we tried to stop him. And — and that’s why I was sealed away with the Scroll.”

For a moment, Ronan was speechless. _“A time when vampires would no longer need to fear the sun”... if that time ever came to pass..._ He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Isran looked a tad skeptical. “So this prophecy is in that Elder Scroll?”

Serana shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s a little hard to tell if you can’t read the Scroll in the first place.”

“Hmph. That’s convenient.” His tone said otherwise. “And what does your little story have to do with us?”

“I’m sorry, but I’d heard that there were vampire hunters here,” Serana shot back sarcastically. “I thought that you might _want_ to know about a vampire plot to enslave the world. Or was I wrong in assuming that?”

Isran ignored her. “Well answer me this: how in Oblivion did you know where to look for us?”

“I asked for directions, found a carriage, and then walked the rest of the way,” Serana retorted. “You’d be surprised at how much innkeepers notice — and how much they don’t. In any case, you shouldn’t worry about my father’s court following me here.”

“But they’ll probably look for you anyway,” Ronan said. “If your father is intent on getting back the Scroll...”

“And that’s _exactly_ what I’m worried about,” Isran said grimly, turning to Ronan. “Now you tell me: is there any reason that I shouldn’t kill this bloodsucking fiend right now?”

Ronan was aghast. “Isran, she told us about Harkon’s plot; now we know what to defend ourselves against! Besides, we’ll need her help if we’re going to stop her father!”

“You believe that story about the prophecy? About some vampire trying to put out the sun?” He snorted disdainfully. “It sounds like a crock of horseshit to me.”

“Well, why else would she risk her life to come here?” Ronan argued.

“Who knows. Maybe it’s insane. Maybe it has a death wish. Or maybe,” Isran added, glaring at Serana, “it’s just scouting out the fort so its brethren can plan another attack.”

Serana returned his glare coolly. “If I was working with my father, do you honestly think I’d be here?”

“Isran, if nothing else, it wouldn’t hurt to look into it further,” Ronan said. “I’m not a member of the Dawnguard —”

“— and at this rate, you never will be,” Isran threatened.

“— so you don’t need me around the fort as much as you need Durak and the others,” Ronan finished. “I can investigate this, and you won’t have me around to — to spread sedition among the recruits, or whatever it is you fear I’ll do.” He couldn’t keep his frustration from seeping into his last few words. “And _yes_ , I _do_ think I’m going to be the one to do this, because you want to get rid of Serana and me as soon as possible.”

Isran almost smiled, but his eyes were still cold. “Damn right. Your vampire can stay for now, but I’ll warn you: if it lays a finger on anyone, I’m holding you responsible.” He scowled at Serana again. “You hear me? Don’t feel like a guest, because you’re not. You’re a resource, an asset. In the meantime, don’t make me regret my sudden outburst of tolerance and generosity, because if you do, your friend here is going to pay for it.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Serana said icily. “I’ll remember it the next time I’m feeling hungry.”

Isran snorted. “You’d better.”

Serana turned to Ronan. “So, in case you were a little slow to notice the giant thing on my back, I do have the Elder Scroll.” She tapped the jeweled case again to draw attention to it. “Whatever it says, it might give as a clue as to how to stop my father — but of course, neither of us can read it.”

“Moth Priests can,” Ronan mused, “but I’ve read that they spend years preparing before they do, though. Not to mention they’re all half a continent away in Cyrodiil,” he added. _And going to Cyrodiil would be a very bad idea for me..._

“Some Imperial scholar arrived in Skyrim a few days ago,” Isran said gruffly. “I was staking out the road when I saw him pass by. Grey robes, long beard. That might be your Moth Priest.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Ronan asked.

“You want to find him, try talking to anyone who’d meet a traveler. Innkeepers and carriage drivers in the Hold capitals, maybe. But that’s your problem, Sorleigh, not mine.”

Ronan swallowed. _I suppose it would be too much to hope that Isran would be helpful._ “Yes, sir.”

Without another word, Isran turned and left.

Ronan turned back to Serana. “Well, it’s a start,” he said weakly. “Any idea where a Moth Priest might go?”

“Back before I... you know... when I was actually _alive_ , the College of Winterhold was the first place I’d go for any kind of magical or historical information,” Serana offered. “The mages know about all kinds of things.”

Ronan nodded. “I’ve met the Arch-Mage before; I bet she can help us.”

Serana arched an eyebrow. “So you think I’m going with you?”

Ronan flushed at the directness of her question. “You don’t honestly want to stick around Fort Dawnguard, do you?”

She laughed. “Of course I don’t. Besides, I’ve been wanting to get out and explore a bit.” Her tone grew wistful. “I imagine Skyrim’s changed a lot.”

“Over however many centuries? Absolutely,” Ronan laughed.

Serana scrutinized him. “You seem to know a good deal about history. Mind catching me up on everything that’s happened? It’s a long walk back to Riften, and I could use something to get my mind off things.”

Ronan nodded, smiling. “Of course.” He ushered her out of the torture chamber without a backwards glance. “We better get moving if we want to find what we’re looking for.”

 

When Fenella finally stirred, she felt nothing. Her body was strangely light, almost weightless, the coils of rope around her wrists and ankles barely perceptible. It almost didn’t feel like she was sitting at all — or indeed, if she was even within her body anymore.

She tried to think about how she’d gotten here, but her head was empty and her thoughts were scattered and too quick for her to grasp. _Why am —?_

The thought trailed off. Fenella tried to capture it again, but she couldn’t hold it. _Dammit, what’s —?_

A voice like a blade shearing through silk filled her head. “Awake, then. Good.”

Fenella opened her eyes slowly, and it was only then that she realized that there was a blindfold obscuring her vision. “Who —?”

Spasms wracked her body as lightning danced over her skin, and she cried out, half in surprise and half in pain. Fenella felt the muscles in her neck loosen, and her head dropped down onto her chest: throbbing, but still devoid of anything.

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to.” There was an edge to that voice now. “Am I clear?”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely, words failing her. _Why can’t I —?_

“I apologize for your confinement.” The voice sounded anything but contrite. “Perhaps once you prove yourself to be... _compliant,_ I will give you further rein.”

“I understand,” Fenella found herself saying. _No, I —!_

“Good.” There was a rustling of fabric nearby, and then she gave a start as a cold finger began tracing the outline of her jaw. “Now, I would very much like you to answer some questions for me.” He laughed: coldly, cruelly. “But it is not as though you have a choice.”

“Anything you say.” _Don’t —!_

His breath caressed her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “How did you come to be a vessel for my lord?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana get on the road and get to know each other.


	20. Avoidance

“This is the _Fourth_ Era?” Serana said incredulously. “What happened to merit _that_?”

Ronan laughed at her astonishment. “Well, there was the assassination of Reman Cyrodiil III and his son Juilek by the Morag Tong, and the subsequent takeover of the throne by Virsidue-Shaie, which marked the end of the First Era and the beginning of the Second Era. The Third Era began when Tiber Septim conquered all of Tamriel, and it ended with the Oblivion Crisis. And now, here we are in the Fourth Era.” He stopped. “What is it?”

Serana was shaking her head. “It’s just hard to believe that I’ve missed all of this,” she mused. “I used to know Skyrim so well, but now... it feels like a foreign land to me.” She sighed. “One of the side effects of centuries passing you by, I suppose.”

After a westward walk that had taken them half the afternoon, Ronan and Serana had arrived in Riften by evening. They’d been able to find lodging for the night at the Bee and Barb, not to mention some bowls of hot stew that Ronan hadn’t known he’d been yearning for until he smelled them. Not letting himself get distracted from the task at hand, he’d made some discreet inquiries around the inn about a Moth Priest; sadly, his efforts had turned up nothing.

Though they had attracted little attention so far — Serana had prudently kept her hood up to avoid comment on her vaguely eerie appearance — Ronan couldn’t help feeling a little on edge knowing that he was in the City of Thieves again. _I can only hope that no one from the Guild notices me... judging by what Karliah said, I don’t think I’ll be warmly received._

He resolved not to think about the Guild any more than he had to. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he asked, “but how old are you? The way you speak about history... it seems like you must be —” Ronan felt himself coloring and did not finish the sentence.

“Ancient?” Now it was Serana’s turn to laugh. “Perhaps. Though,” she added, “I’m not exactly sure _how_ ancient I am. Time tends to get a little fuzzy for vampires who’ve been alive too long, let alone pure-blooded ones like myself.”

“You weren’t always a vampire, then?”

“No, not always.” She sighed again. “It’s... it’s a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it,” Ronan offered. “That is, if you don’t mind telling it,” he added, afraid that he’d overstepped his bounds.

Serana pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then: “I guess... we kind of have to go way back. To the very beginning. Do you know where vampirism first came from?”

“No, not really,” he confessed. “I was never a scholar of the more supernatural aspects of Tamrielic lore. But... if I had to hazard a guess, I would say it came from a Daedric Prince,” he continued after a moment, thinking of his connection with Nocturnal. _The Daedra have always interfered with humanity’s course... and rarely in good ways._

Serana nodded. “According to legend, the first vampire came from Molag Bal. She... was not a willing subject.” Her face darkened. “But she was still the first.” The vampire’s fingers intertwined tightly on the table top. “Molag Bal is a very powerful Daedric lord, and He always seeks to make His will reality. For those willing to subjugate themselves, He will still bestow the gift of vampirism, but they must be powerful in their own right before earning His trust.”

“So you and your family were made vampires by Molag Bal?” Ronan said tentatively. _I may begrudge Nocturnal’s presence at times, but Molag Bal... now_ there’s _a Daedra I would never want near me in a million years..._

 _I appreciate your praise,_ Nocturnal said dryly.

Serana leaned forward slightly in her seat, propping up her elbows on the table. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “The ceremony was... degrading.” Her mouth tightened in remembered humiliation. “But... but we all took part in it: my father, my mother, and myself. Not exactly a wholesome family activity, but I suppose that’s just what you do when you give yourself to a Daedric Prince.” Her tone was wry, but her golden eyes were still dark. “It was my father’s idea, of course. He’d never been stable, and eventually, he drove my mother crazy with him. And it all ended with me being locked underground for who knows how long.” Serana looked away, avoiding his eyes.

Ronan thought about reaching out to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you —”

“It’s done,” Serana said abruptly. “What happened to me is over. There’s no point in dwelling on it... especially when I can’t even remember how long ago it was.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The sounds of the rest of the inn — talking, shouted orders for more food, and the strains of a flute — drifted past their corner table, filling the still with mundane noise that Ronan was thankful for.

Serana spoke then. “What about your family, Ronan? They’ve got to be better than mine.” She tried to smile slightly.

 _I’m not so sure about that..._ He hesitated, trying to decide on what to say. “I never know my parents,” he finally said. “I was raised in the orphanage here in Riften.”

Serana’s gaze turned sympathetic. “That sounds like a rough childhood.”

“It was,” Ronan admitted, not wanting to go into further detail. “Fortunately, I was adopted when I was fourteen and I left Riften to live with my foster father in High Rock.”

“Who was the man who adopted you?” Serana had now propped up her chin with the palm of one hand, listening to the story.

“His name was Eamon Sorleigh, a nobleman of Daggerfall. I soon learned that his talents and connections as a merchant extended to the Thieves Guild as well; he’d been a fence for them for many years and continued to aid them by training recruits — one of them being me.”

Serana frowned. “It sounds like you were more of a tool to him than a son.”

“Hardly. We may not have been related by blood, but he was — he was good to me, more than he had the right to be.” He grinned to himself. “I was terribly unruly when I first came to the Sorleigh Estate: misbehaving, never listening, always running around the city making mischief. It wasn’t until I matured a little when I realized the value of the opportunity I’d been given.”

Serana still looked a bit skeptical. “To become a thief?”

Ronan shrugged. “I’d always been more nimbler and more stealthy than most, and by the time I was adopted, I’d already had experience picking locks and pockets both. It was... something I was born to do, I suppose,” he finished, his mind going back to Nocturnal.

Nocturnal laughed. _You suppose correctly. Larceny is in your blood, Ronan._

“So what’s a thief from High Rock doing hunting vampires in Skyrim?” the vampire asked playfully. “And not half a day from the city he grew up in, at that.”

Ronan sighed. “I’d really rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, come now,” Serana laughed. “I told you a bit about what I remember of my miserable family life, and now you do the same. Fair’s fair.”

Ronan was about to answer when he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head slightly to see a brunette Nord woman whispering to a stocky Nord man over in a shadowy corner of the bar; both, he noted, were in sleeveless Guild leathers.

Suddenly, the woman glanced over at him, eyes narrowed, and he immediately averted his gaze, heart pounding and shoulders tense.

Serana noticed his unease. “What is it?”

“We might want to leave,” he said, standing hastily.

“I thought we were spending the night in Riften before moving on,” Serana objected, standing with him. “Didn’t you already purchase rooms here?”

“Our plans have changed,” Ronan said tightly. He grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair and threw it over his shoulders. “We’ll find a carriage to take us to Winterhold and sleep on the way there.”

“In a cart? I don’t think so.” Just then, some measure of understanding flickered in her eyes. “Does your hurry to leave have anything to do with the two unfriendly-looking Nords standing behind you?” Serana asked sardonically.

Ronan turned around. The two thieves that he’d seen earlier were standing there, and as Serana had observed, they were looking anything but pleasant.

The man spoke first. “Is this the one, Sapphire?”

“I’m positive, Vipir,” the woman responded, steel in her tone. “He’s stayed at the Bee and Barb before. Not to mention he’s the spitting image of that bastard Frey,” she added with venom.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Ronan said quickly. “I’m just passing through.”

“I’d make sure of it,” Sapphire spat. “The Senior Operatives don’t want you in Riften, and they sure as Oblivion don’t want you meddling in Guild affairs.”

Vipir placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Easy there, Saph.” He addressed Ronan. “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”

“It _is_ personal,” Ronan retorted, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “If you and the Guild looked past my face long enough to give me a chance —”

“Look, Sorleigh: the Guild isn’t interested in giving you a chance,” Vipir interrupted. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to leave Riften, we won’t have to go to extremes.”

“Then I’ll have to deprive you of your fun.” Ronan turned away and started stalking towards the door, anger building within him.

“It was — maybe a year ago,” Fenella began haltingly. “I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but... it seems like it was a long time ago.” Her thoughts spilled out of her; she’d found that it was easier this way: to just speak her mind instead of keeping everything inside her head, where it hurt. “I’ve tried not to think about it.”

“But you are not resisting now, correct?” His voice held a thinly veiled threat.

“Of course not,” she said hastily. “I would never!” Fenella held up her hands — now untied from the arms of the chair — and turned them up to him: a gesture of supplication.

Lounging in a high-backed armchair across from her, the hooded, robed figure seemed to smile. “I know you would not, my dear.” He waved a single gloved hand lazily. “Continue.”

Fenella licked her dry lips. “I was reopening an investigation,” she said slowly as the memories started to rush back in. “One that had never been truly closed. One of the Vigil — Vigilant Tyranus — had been investigating allegations of Daedra worship going on in Markarth. He’d left months and months ago, but he — he never came back.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to believe he was dead, but... I knew...” She stopped for a moment to collect herself before continuing. “And — and in any case, I didn’t want to leave his work unfinished.”

“You and this Tyranus were close, then.” It was not a question.

Fenella flushed. “Yes. Yes, we were.” She looked down at her hands, fallen like dead leaves to her lap where they lay curled. “I cared for him a great deal — and — and he for me... which is why my mother didn’t want me going. She thought I was being foolish, that I was going to essentially kill myself in Tyranus’s name.”

“You went despite her objections.”

Fenella nodded. “Once I’d gotten to Markarth, it didn’t take me long to sense that there was something — something amiss. I went to the jarl’s steward and explained what I was doing here, and he told me what he’d said he told Tyranus: that there was an abandoned house in the city that people’d seen lights and heard noises from inside. And — somehow I knew — I knew that _that_ was what Tyranus was investigating when he — when he vanished.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears, her hand shaking.

“I managed to find the house that the steward had spoken of, and I entered it a little after night fell. It had been trashed — furniture tipped over, food scattered all over the floor, just in total disarray — but there was no woodrot on the furniture, no decay in the food, no dust anywhere. It was as though someone _had_ been there, though — though I did not see Tyranus. I —” she avoided his gaze again “— I went further: into the cellar. There was a passage that led into a cavern below the foundations...” Her voice grew choked.

The figure was leaning forward in his chair now, interest piqued. “And what did you find there?” he murmured.

“An altar.” Fenella’s voice was barely above a whisper. “An altar of ebony... in the shape of a horned skull... an altar to Molag Bal, the Harvester of Souls. And —”

“And?” he prompted, a note of keenness in his voice.

“There was a mace. Twisted, corrupted, _evil._ ” The remembered fear showed itself in her wide, horrified eyes. “And — and I knew I had to escape, to get back to the Vigil, to tell them of what Tyranus had died for, but — the _cage_ —” She rocked back and forth in her seat, shuddering in terror. “ _He_ trapped me — and — and _he_ spoke to me —”

“What did He say to you?” The figure stood, pacing over to her.

 _Your soul is_ mine _, Vigilant._

Fenella broke down, burying her face in her hands. “No more — no more —”

 _And soon enough, it will be_ his.

“I can’t — _he speaks_ —” She doubled over, nausea gripping her stomach with its claws.

“And why is it that you do not respond?”

“Because I don’t want him in my head!” Fenella screamed, unable to stop herself from voicing her thoughts. “I — I don’t —” Tears streamed down her face. “I’m afraid.”

He bent down in front of her; despite the shadow that the hood cast over his face, she could still see the gleaming golden eyes underneath. “There is no need to be afraid, my dear,” he said simply, almost soothingly. “Not anymore.”

Suddenly, his gloved hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her sobs. Fenella brought her hands up to tear his arm down, but they seemed to fall back into her lap, limp and useless. _I will not let him in — I will not, I will_ not _—_

She realized too late what she had done.

It was like a cold wind rushing through her head, chilling her down to the marrow in her bones and freezing every part of her. She stiffened, her shaking muscles locking in place and her ears ringing. Before she collapsed again, the darkness behind her vision rushing up to claim her, a cruel voice echoed triumphantly within her mind.

_MINE._

“So… are you ever going to give me an explanation for what happened in Riften?” Serana asked coolly.

Ronan sighed; this was not the first time he’d heard that. “I told you, it was nothing.”

Serana raised her eyebrows. “You are a terrible liar,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Judging by how quickly we left Riften, it must have been _something_.”

It had been two days since the run-in with Sapphire and Vipir in the Bee and Barb, and despite the fact that they were finally on the Moth Priest’s trail — Ronan had bribed the carriage driver at the Riften stables in order to coax some information out of him, leaving his coin purse dishearteningly light — Ronan had remained in a dour mood since then. The encounter had brought all of his frustration over Mercer and the Guild back to the forefront of his mind, and he had a sense that it wasn’t going away any time soon.

“It’s nothing you should worry about,” he tried to reassure her. “They don’t have anything to do with the Dawnguard or our mission.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but those Nords seemed to have _something_ to do with _you_ ,” Serana pointed out. “So, what was it?”

Ronan was silent for a moment. Then: “I — I looked like someone,” he said carefully.

“That’s not exactly enlightening,” Serana commented.

They’d reached the top of the rise in the road, and below them lay the clustered houses with straw-thatched roofs that comprised the small settlement of Dragon Bridge. The massive, elaborately carved bridge from which the town derived its name from lay beyond, spanning the chasm that a grey-blue river rushed through. Ronan remembered passing through here before with Finverior when they were looking for Sorine Jurard — _and now here I am again,_ he thought sourly.

“It’s not meant to be,” he said abruptly. “I — I just would prefer not to talk about it.”

Serana tilted her head to one side, curious, but then nodded. “Fair enough.”

A series of barks caught his attention, and Ronan turned to see a dog dashing up the road from Dragon Bridge. Tongue lolling from its mouth, it gamboled in circles around him.

“There you are!” A giggling boy ran up and threw his arms around the happy dog. “I was wondering where you were!”

“I’m sorry if I distracted your dog,” Ronan apologized, smiling despite himself.

“That’s okay, mister. He runs off a lot.” The boy looked up at him from under a mop of dark hair. “Are you adventurers?”

“You could call us that.” Ronan idly scratched the cheerfully panting dog behind the ears. “My companion and I are looking for a Moth Priest, and we heard that he passed through Dragon Bridge. Have you seen him?” _Children don’t have the same reservations that adults do; they’re more than happy to talk._

His hunch paid off. “I don’t know what a Moth Priest is, but I did see an old man in a grey robe pass through here early this morning,” the boy told him. “He was riding in a big wagon with some Imperial guards.”

“Did you see where they went?” Ronan asked.

The boy pointed towards the bridge. “They rode through town and headed south, over the bridge. I bet you could catch them if you hurried up.”

“Thank you,” Ronan said gratefully. “That was very helpful.”

The boy beamed. “You’re welcome, mister. I hope you find him!” With that being said, he started running back down towards the town, his dog loping beside him.

“At least we know we’re on the right trail,” Serana said, tugging her hood a little further over her face. “I just hope that my father’s agents haven’t found it.”

Ronan nodded, a feeling of foreboding growing. “I suppose we’ll have to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana catch up to the Moth Priest.


	21. More to Find

They had indeed caught up with the Moth Priest’s entourage, but not the Moth Priest himself; Ronan and Serana hadn’t gone far beyond Dragon Bridge when they encountered an upended, ransacked cart with the bodies of vampires and Imperial legionnaires. After searching one of the vampires, Serana had produced a missive that incriminated a member of Harkon’s court by the name of Malkus for the attack — and after scanning the surrounding area, she’d discovered a blood trail that led down the road and away from the carnage.

It had led them to a cave (“Presumably this ‘Forebear’s Holdout,’” Serana had remarked dryly, referring to the missive) that, like Dimhollow Crypt, held more ruins with architecture that was distinctly reminiscent of Castle Volkihar. If they had come at another time, Ronan would have been more than happy to examine the crumbling stone walls and the layout of the different floors, but he found himself having little difficulty staying focused on beating off death hounds and vampires’ thralls. _The threat of death seems to do that,_ he thought wryly.

And now, crouching on a flight of stairs with his crossbow ready in his hands, Ronan was witnessing something that he’d never seen before: a rippling wall of magical energy springing up around glowing stone pillars. While he could not see with much clarity the figure slumped inside, trapped, Ronan could only guess that the frail, grey-robed form was that of the Moth Priest that they’d been searching for.

“Yes... I can feel your defenses crumbling, priest,” chuckled a raspy, deep voice — _a vampire’s voice,_ Ronan recognized, his blood running cold at the all-too-familiar sound. “You want it to end. You want to give in to me.”

“That must be Malkus,” Serana muttered. “I’m starting to think that most of the court members that my father turned could have had promising careers in theatre.”

Ronan nearly laughed, but stifled it just in time. Aside from Serana’s remark, nothing about this situation was particularly humorous. He and Serana had had no issue making their way through Forebear’s Holdout, but now, they were up against two vampires — one of them potentially very powerful — in a rather small space; Ronan also had noted with no small amount of wariness that there were another small set of stairs leading up into shadow, potentially concealing more opponents.

Nocturnal laughed, startling him. _Always a good point to consider. But keep in mind that there is not much that can withstand a Daedric Prince._

 _Are you speaking of Yourself or Molag Bal?_ he asked sardonically.

She sighed a trifle dramatically. _I was speaking generally, dear. But you must admit that you and I make a formidable pair, even without your little Daughter of Coldharbour._

Ronan frowned. _“Daughter of Coldharbour”? Do you mean Serana?_

 _Whatever her name is,_ Nocturnal sniffed.

“Ronan!” Serana hissed under her breath, shaking his shoulder.

He jerked out of his mind. “What is it?”

“I asked you about how you wanted to deal with Malkus and the other vampire.”

“Right.” Ronan thought quickly. “I’ll see if I can take the latter down from here. _Then_ we can go charge out and kill Malkus.”

Serana brought up her hands, crackling ice spikes over both palms. “After you.”

Turning around as quietly as he could, Ronan checked to make sure his crossbow bolt was loaded correctly, then carefully took aim at Malkus’s assistant, silhouetted by the light emanating from the magical barrier around the Moth Priest. He inhaled quietly to steady himself, and then as he exhaled, he squeezed the trigger.

 _Thunk._ The vampire crumpled as the bolt drove into his neck, and Malkus whirled around instantly. At the same time, Serana leapt up from behind her cover, firing a large and dangerously pointed chunk of ice directly at him; it hit Malkus in the stomach before he could react, and he fell back onto the stone platform, something falling from his hand and clattering by his side.

Standing up, Ronan holstered his crossbow onto his back. “That was easier than I expected,” he commented, smiling at her. “We make a pretty good team.”

Serana nearly returned the gesture, but it turned into a frown as she scrutinized the magical barrier. “How do you propose dealing with this?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he confessed. “But we’ll have to if we want to free the Moth Priest,” he added, glancing at the grey-robed figure within.

Serana crossed to Malkus’ body and knelt to retrieve the object he’d been holding: a small carved stone with pale blue designs similar to the ones on the stone pillars framing the barrier. “A focus stone,” she mused. “Well, that makes our problem a little simpler. There must be a source somewhere nearby that we can use to bring down the barrier.”

“So you’ve heard of this after all?” Ronan asked, taking a step towards the barrier to examine it further.

“Heard of it, never actually seen one in use.” Serana glanced behind her. “I wouldn’t recommend getting too close to that, Ronan. I’ve read that the energies are so potent, they can sever fingers with a single touch.”

Ronan hastily withdrew his hand.

“The source might be somewhere up these stairs,” Serana continued, more to herself. “I’ll go take a look; you stay down here.” With that, she ascended the narrow flight of stairs and vanished into the darkness.

After a moment, there was a scraping of stone from somewhere up above, and the barrier shuddered as if blown by a strong gale. As Serana came hurrying down the stairs, the strange energy dissipated into the air, vanishing into the shadows and revealing the form of the Moth Priest within. The old man groaned, and tried to sit up, but then collapsed onto his back again.

Ronan hurried over, helping the groggy old man to a sitting position. “Easy there. Are you — are you all right?” he asked, unsure of what else to say.

The Moth Priest chuckled wearily. “Quite all right, thanks to you. Thank you for breaking that foul vampire’s hold over me.” His eyes rested on Malkus’s body. “With his death, I feel... well, ‘better’ would be a good way to describe it.”

“Do you need any healing potions?” Ronan supported the old man as he attempted to stand.

“Thank you for your concern, but I think I’ll be fine.” The Moth Priest held out his hand to the other. “Dexion Evicus is my name. I’m a Moth Priest of the White-Gold Tower. And you?”

“Ronan Sorleigh.” Ronan shook his hand. “I’m with the Dawnguard.” _Though I use the term a bit loosely..._

“Hmm...” Dexion rubbed his bearded chin. “If my knowledge of history serves me, I recall that the Dawnguard was an ancient order of vampire hunters — though I would admit, they are a bit obscure. And someone has revived them, yes? Interesting.”

Serana interrupted. “Do you have any idea what Malkus wanted you for?”

“I presume you’re referring to the nasty one that enthralled me,” Dexion said with a bit of distaste. “But no, I do not. He claimed that his master had some purpose in store for me, but he wouldn’t say what. Probably hoping to ransom me, the fool.”

Ronan cleared his throat. “It was more of a hypothetical question, Dexion. We _do_ know, because we need you for the same purpose.”

Dexion raised his eyebrows. “You do? All right then, enough mysteries.”

“We need you to read an Elder Scroll,” Ronan said simply.

The Moth Priest’s eyebrows raised even further. “You have an Elder Scroll?” he breathed, seeing it on Serana’s back. “Remarkable! How did you come by it?”

“It’s a long story,” Ronan said, glancing at Serana. “But we need you to read it as soon as you can. It’s very important that you do so.”

“My dear boy, I will be happy to assist you with your Elder Scroll. This is a marvelous opportunity! Now, just tell me where I need to go to do so.”

> _High Queen,_
> 
> _You wouldn’t_ believe _the amount of dusty old manuscripts I had to go through in order to find this intelligence. Even with Urag’s considerable aid in finding materials and Enthir’s considerably less than enthusiastic aid in perusing through said materials, it seemed to take_ ages. _But I believe I have found what you are looking for._
> 
> _Surprisingly, I found a wealth of information on the high-ranking members of the Dragon Cult priesthood; coincidentally enough, it would seem that most of the recorded ones were buried in their temples in the North of Tamriel, spread out over Skyrim and Solstheim — with their respective masks, of course. It would seem that their masks were integral to their status, perhaps even lending them the prodigious arcane powers that they were both feared and revered for._
> 
> _In any case, I have discovered the locations of two other Dragon Priest tombs. One is Valthume, located southeast of Markarth and southwest of Rorikstead; it houses the body of the feared Hevnoraak. The other is Ragnvald, located northeast of Markarth: the final resting place of Otar, charmingly called “the Mad.” There are some rather unsavory legends about the pair of them, so tell whoever you send there to tread warily._
> 
> _I also came across vague mentions of another, hidden Dragon Priest mask: that of Konahriik (who, regrettably, I was not able to find out much about). His name was always connected with “Bromjunaar Sanctuary” — which, again, I have no idea where it is (presumably in Skyrim)._
> 
> _I will look into this further._
> 
> _Siladhiel Alassë, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold_

Without another word, Kajsa folded the parchment and laid it back on her desk, her lips pursed in troubled thought. After a moment, she rose from her seat and approached the small display case in the corner of the room. She fished out the key from the sleeve of her robes and unlocked it, lifting the lid up after she returned the key to the hidden pocket.

The horned golden mask rested on the red velvet lining of the case, peering up at her with slit eyes as if it still held the life — or un-life — of the Priest who’d once worn it.

_Miraak._

She still remembered the moment he died with gruesome clarity: one of Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles driving through his chest, the mask falling from his face and to the ground. And as his body convulsed with the agonies of death for the final time, she’d lifted the mask, feeling the coolness of the metal seep into her hands and chill her bones.

Kajsa brushed the tip of one finger over the edge of the mask. Despite the cold of the Palace of the Kings, it felt a little bit warm to the touch, almost _charged_ with something.

Try as she might, Kajsa could find no justification for keeping Miraak’s mask — _but I have a feeling that the damn thing’s more keeping me than I am it,_ she thought grimly.

_But better me than the Thalmor._

 

“Who said something: Sorine or Gunmar?” Isran demanded. “I thought they’d have learned their lesson by now.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” Finverior drawled. “But if you must know, it was both of them. I don’t think you can blame them for being worried about our little situation — at least, not _reasonably_ so.”

“Well, forget it,” Isran snapped. “I don’t trust that man, and I don’t want him here.”

Ronan sighed. _Looks like Isran is being as stubborn as always... at least the man I had to deal with this time around was more than happy to oblige without an argument._

Dexion peered around his shoulder. “This is quite the remarkable fortress!” he exclaimed. “I have colleagues back in Cyrodiil who would love to study this in more detail.”

Upon hearing the new voices, Isran turned around, his eyes resting on Ronan, Dexion, and Serana standing by the main doors of Fort Dawnguard. “Well, well, Sorleigh,” he said gruffly. “You found that Moth Priest after all.”

“Yes,” Ronan said tightly. “Yes, we did.”

“Ah, Isran,” Finverior interjected, clearing his throat, “not to upstage Sir Sunshine here or anything, but about Florentius —”

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Isran huffed. “Last I heard of that crazy bastard, he was aiding the Vigilants of Stendarr at Ruunvald. He might still be there, but if the vampires were intent on wiping out the Vigil, he might not be, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“And if I find him after all?” Finverior asked. “The Dawnguard does seem to have excellent luck finding people, you know.”

Isran rubbed his brow. “If Baenius can maintain _some_ semblance of normalcy, I’ll allow him to stay. But he’s got to make himself useful, too; I’m not a damn charity case.”

Serana snorted quietly. “Clearly,” she muttered.

Isran addressed Ronan again. “Well, Sorleigh? Is the Moth Priest ready to do the reading?”

“Oh, most certainly,” Dexion interjected before Ronan could answer. “I must say, I’m quite eager to find out what secrets the Scrolls contain.”

“Don’t you want to rest a little first?” Ronan asked worriedly. “We _have_ traveled quite a ways, and before that —”

Dexion smiled. “I appreciate your concern, but I believe I’ll be fine.” He started walking forward, out into the center of the main hall towards Isran and Finverior. “There will be an ample amount of light here to perform it, I think. Could you hand me the Scroll, please?”

Serana, who’d followed him out, took the Scroll off her back and carefully gave it to him.

“Thank you, my dear. Now, please,” Dexion said, glancing at everyone, “be silent. I need to concentrate if this is to succeed.” Slowly and carefully, he pulled out the thin piece of parchment from its sheath.

Averting his eyes from the exposed Scroll, Ronan held his breath and waited.

When Dexion next spoke, his voice was hushed and reverent. “I see a vision before me, an image of a great bow. I know this weapon... it is Auriel’s Bow.”

Isran frowned in surprise. Finverior’s eyes gleamed.

“And now... a voice of the past whispers,” Dexion murmured. “Among the night’s children, a dread lord will rise. In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light, and the day and the night will be as one.”

Serana’s face paled even further.

“The voice fades, and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait: there is more here.” Dexion was more speaking to himself than anyone else now, his words hurried as he searched the Scroll for more. “The secret of the bow’s power is written elsewhere... there is more to the prophecy recorded in other Scrolls...”

Ronan glanced at Serana; she appeared just as shocked as he was.

“Yes, I see them now,” Dexion whispered. “One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood.” His voice trailed off. “My — my vision darkens... and I see no more.”

“What do you mean?” Ronan asked, confused. “Surely there’s more written there.”

As if coming out of a trance, Dexion slid the Scroll back inside its casing and looked up, his eyes unfocused and far away. “I’m sorry, but there was nothing else,” he said. “To know the complete prophecy, you must have the two other scrolls — wherever they are now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana (and Finverior) set out on a search for the Scrolls.


	22. Luck and Circumstance

“How in Oblivion are we supposed to find another Elder Scroll, let alone _two?_ ” Ronan burst out. “Seeing that all the ones that were previously known have vanished from the White-Gold Tower, I don’t see how we can do this.”

“Well, Sir Sunshine, you seemed to manage just fine before,” Finverior commented, gesturing at the Scroll on Serana’s back. “Just apply that marvelous luck of yours to the problem and there’ll be Elder Scrolls everywhere you look in no time at all!”

The three of them were on the road out of Riften, leading northward. It had originally been a party of two — Serana and Ronan — but Finverior had caught up with them just a few steps out of Fort Dawnguard and invited himself into their group, claiming that he could use their map to help him find Ruunvald. “Not to mention,” he’d added with a broad wink at the pair of them, “the company is always welcome.”

Ronan sighed irritably. “At this point, I think my luck’s beginning to run out on me.”

He could almost hear Nocturnal purse her lips disapprovingly. _Is having the Daedric Prince of luck on your side not enough for you?_

 _I meant no disrespect,_ he thought quickly. _It’s just that... it doesn’t seem like things have been going all that well._

 _Compared to what_ might _have happened, Ronan, everything is going perfectly._ Her tone was matter-of-fact. _It would hardly harm you to trust me every once in a while. After all, when have I_ ever _betrayed you?_

 _You haven’t,_ he shot back, _and that’s what worries me._

Nocturnal laughed. _That was the right answer._

“Maybe we could try for the College of Winterhold,” Serana suggested. “I remember the Arcaneum housing thousands of books and documents. Even if there isn’t an Elder Scroll there, we can definitely figure out where one might be.”

“How about we skip that approach, sweetheart?” Finverior said. “The Arch-Mage won’t be too keen on seeing me strolling around the grounds.” He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “But now that you mention it...”

“What is it?” Ronan asked.

“There used to be this teacher at the College back when I first came to Winterhold,” Finverior said slowly. “Septimus Sigmus. Taught ancient history, with some magical theory on the side. Some called him brilliant, but if you ask me, he was a lunatic.” He chuckled. “Left the College a few years ago before Arch-Mage Aren could kick him out.”

“Why do you mention him?”

“Because he was obsessed with the Elder Scrolls, genius, and I mean _obsessed_ ,” Finverior said. “If we can find him — and assuming he’s not gone completely off the deep end — we might have a chance at finding your Elder Scrolls.”

“What’s this ‘we’ you keep speaking of?” Serana said dryly, crossing her arms. “I thought _you_ had an errand to run for the Dawnguard.”

“Seeing as that I’m the only one of us three who’s cleared for access to the college, darling, finding that priest of Arkay can wait. Besides,” he said with a lewd smirk, “you can hardly blame me for not wanting to leave the company of two gorgeous people such as yourselves.”

“Try me,” she replied flatly.

“I thought you said that Arch-Mage Alassë wouldn’t want you on College grounds,” Ronan interrupted suspiciously.

Finverior took on an innocent expression. “I _might_ have exaggerated a bit —”

“— and I seem to remember her saying that you were banned from the College,” the other finished, half-lying. He didn’t recall Siladhiel’s exact words, but Ronan wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be true.

He was not disappointed. “Okay, I’m currently banned from the College,” Finverior confessed. “But it’s all been blown up out of proportion, honestly!”

“I’m sensing a story here,” Serana said, amused.

“Serana, I’m sure you don’t want to —” Ronan warned.

“Too late,” Finverior interrupted cheerfully. “The short version is this: I was — actually, still am — involved with a student at the College, and we may or may not have kept people up at night with the sounds of our riotous lovemaking. Some teachers complained, and the Arch-Mage — kill-joy that she is — banned me from the grounds.” He spread his hands. “That’s it. No poisonings, no trouble with the law... just sex, plain and simple.”

Serana blinked, a bit taken aback at his forthrightness.

“Then how are you so confident that you’ll get in?” Ronan asked warily.

“Because I sneak in through the Middens all the time,” Finverior replied, flashing him a grin. “Onmund and I are just quieter now, and we rendezvous in places other than his room. Having no door _does_ tend to make activity inside rather obvious.”

“But _we’re_ not going to the College to have a tryst with your lover,” Ronan said, exasperated. “How are we supposed to get to the Arcaneum if you’re too busy hiding from the Arch-Mage to show us where it is?”

“You are nothing if not resourceful, my good Sir Sunshine,” Finverior dismissed flippantly. “You’ll think of something.”

“Is there someone we can go to _outside_ of the College that might have knowledge of Elder Scrolls?” Serana cut in. “If so, that would save us a bit of time and effort.”

“We-ell...” Finverior said thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbly chin. “You _could_ go to Kajsa. She’s full of surprises; it wouldn’t shock me if she keeps an Elder Scroll underneath her bed.”

Serana frowned. “Kajsa?”

“Kajsa Stormcloak, the Dragonborn and the High Queen of Skyrim,” Ronan explained. “Finverior works for her, and I’ve met her before. But...” His voice trailed off. “That wouldn’t necessarily be my first course of action.”

“Than what is? The College?” Finverior asked jokingly.

“No, it’s — it’s just that I’m sure she’s tired of seeing me,” the other finished lamely. _Tired of seeing Mercer’s face reflected in mine._

“Windhelm and Winterhold are in the same general direction,” Serana said. “We can stop in Windhelm, and if Kajsa doesn’t have what we’re looking for, we can continue on to Winterhold. Besides,” she added with a conspiratorial smile, “I’d very much like to meet this Dragonborn queen.”

The chamber that Finverior had led them to was cold, but well-lit by candles and a fire dancing in the stone hearth across the room. Aside from the blue-grey banners on the walls, there were few adornments in the room, but the wooden furniture was elegantly carved and the fur rugs on the floor were clean. Serana supposed that if it was bare, it would have felt quite unwelcoming, but the chamber felt more quietly austere than anything else.

Finverior cleared his throat, stepping forward as he did so. “Hope we’re not disturbing you, High Queen.”

A woman stood from a seat by the fire, smoothing out her skirts as she did so. She was slight and lean with braided umber hair and dark eyes. Three deep white scars ran down one cheek. Her dress was simple and dark, with a high neck and close-fitted sleeves, and she wore no jewelry save for a wooden amulet on a cord around her throat. While she was no legendary beauty, she carried herself like the queen she was, with her chin just held high enough to suggest pride bordering on arrogance.

“You are, but you picked a good time to do it.” The High Queen held up some sheets of parchment that she’d been holding in her hand. “I was just going over some field reports. Now that we know for sure that Elenwen’s still working for the Dominion, Dupre is doubling down on her efforts to find her.”

“Well, with our scintillating Sithia on her trail, Elenwen won’t be able to hide for long,” Finverior said with a grin. “Anything from Dar’Esti? She’s been in Elsweyr for ages.”

“Only a month, Finverior. But no, I haven’t heard anything and I’m not surprised by it. It may be too dangerous for her to communicate.” Walking to the long oak desk, she tucked the sheets inside a leather-bound journal resting on the top of a stack of materials. “What brings you to Windhelm?”

Serana could not help but note a strange undercurrent to her voice: something raw and powerful held in check. Indeed, there seemed to be an aura of power — dark and volatile — around the woman herself. _Is this what the legendary_ thu’um _feels like? Or is it something more?_

From beside her, Ronan spoke. “Actually, this is more my doing.”

The High Queen turned to face them. Her gaze rested on Serana and one eyebrow quirked up wryly. “I thought the Dawnguard hunted vampires, Sorleigh. What are you doing in the company of one?”

“I defected,” Serana said lightly.

Ronan took it upon himself to hastily introduce them. “Kajsa, this is Serana. Serana, this is Kajsa Stormcloak, the Dragonborn and the High Queen of Skyrim.”

“So you are the imprisoned bearer of the Elder Scroll,” the High Queen commented, addressing her. “Ronan mentioned you in passing, but not by name.”

Serana glanced at Ronan, but his eyes were elsewhere.

“The Elder Scroll is why they’re here,” Finverior explained. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Oh?” The High Queen crossed her arms. “This should be interesting.”

“There’s a fragment of an ancient prophecy in the Elder Scroll, and we need to find two others to learn the rest of it,” Ronan said. “According to the Moth Priest who read it for us, the Scrolls we’re looking for have something to do with blood and dragons.”

The High Queen frowned. “This can’t be a coincidence,” she murmured to herself.

“What’s the coincidence?” Serana asked.

The High Queen smiled humorlessly. “Because it just so happens that two years ago, when I was on a quest to defeat Alduin, I came across an Elder Scroll that taught me how.”

Finverior chuckled. “See? Told you that she’d have something up her sleeves.”

Ronan’s eyes widened. “Do you know where it is?” he asked urgently.

“Well, it used to be in the depths of Blackreach below a godsforsaken Dwemer ruin called Alftand — but fortunately for you, I retrieved it,” the High Queen said archly. “It’s currently in my personal vault beneath the Palace of the Kings.”

“The one I’ve tried to pick the locks on hundreds of times?” Finverior asked. When she nodded, he whistled in admiration. “Damn. No offense, High Queen, but I’m kind of glad we asked you before trying to take it ourselves.”

“None taken,” she replied dryly. “And you’re just lucky that you asked me when you did. In light of recent events, I was thinking of sending it up to the College of Winterhold so Siladhiel could keep a better eye on it.”

Ronan sucked in his breath sharply. Frowning slightly, Serana looked over at him again, but his face was expressionless. _What’s got him so on edge?_

The High Queen noticed, but made no comment of it. “I can get it out of the vault tomorrow morning,” she continued. “Is one of you going to take it back to the Dawnguard, or must I wait on someone else to deliver it?”

Ronan spoke up. “Finverior, you’re probably going to be heading back much earlier than Serana and I. You can take it back to the Dawnguard.”

Finverior took on a mock-hurt expression. “Trying to get rid of me so quickly? I’m absolutely heartbroken. But seriously,” he added, sobering slightly, “in case you’ve already forgotten, you’re not the only one out questing for the Dawnguard. While you and your lady fair traipse around Skyrim looking for the other Elder Scroll, I’ve got to go crawling through Ruunvald and find some priest of Arkay.”

“You can return here later, then,” the High Queen said simply.

Finverior heaved a dramatic sigh. “As you command, High Queen.” He slunk towards the door with a casual wave at his companions. “See you around, Sir Sunshine — and I hope to see more of you, gorgeous,” he said, smiling a bit indecently at Serana.

“Keep hoping,” Serana said coolly. While she supposed that some _might_ find his sleazy charm appealing, Finverior was beginning to irritate her.

Finverior pouted. “First him, now you: I can’t take any more rejection this evening — not without a drink, anyway,” he declared. With that, he slipped out of the door, closing it behind him.

The High Queen addressed her. “Serana, could you leave us for a moment? Ronan and I have some things to discuss.” Somehow, it was less of a question and more of a command.

Despite her burning curiosity, Serana nodded. “I’ll wait outside.” She turned around and headed out the same way that Finverior had gone, all too aware of the two pairs of eyes on her back.

After closing the door behind her, Serana leaned up against the wall. For the first time since coming to Fort Dawnguard, she realized how thirsty she was. _If we’re staying in Windhelm tonight, I should probably get out a little... look for someone to feed on before Ronan and I move on._ She thought of a drunken Nord man that she’d noticed harassing a Dunmer couple when she and Ronan and Finverior had arrived earlier that evening, and smiled grimly to herself. _I don’t think people like him will be missed._

The High Queen’s voice was slightly muffled by the stone wall between them, but thanks to her supernaturally good hearing, Serana heard it distinctly. “Do you have any idea where to find your last Elder Scroll?”

“None,” Ronan said ruefully, “but Nocturnal’s reminded me that since we found the first two without any trouble, the last one should be easy enough.” He sighed. “She was gloating a bit over my luck on our way here.”

 _Nocturnal?_ Serana frowned. _The Daedric Prince of shadows and luck, the patron of thieves... speaking to Ronan?_

“You sound like you’re getting used to Her,” the High Queen mused. “Are you?”

A pause. “No, and I don’t think I ever will. She —” he struggled with his words “— She may help me at times, but She lends to my insecurities more. Nocturnal’s presence just reminds me of how much I do not know: about Mercer, about Her will, about others... _anything_.” A note of frustration crept into his voice. “It’s maddening.”

Another pause. “I’ve been thinking on our last conversation... specifically that on Mercer,” the High Queen said carefully. “I did not tell you the full truth.”

Ronan laughed tiredly. “Nocturnal alluded to that, but She didn’t specify. Perhaps you’d like to?” His tone was not confrontational, but rather weary.

“I _did_ indeed form an opinion of your father. Three times over, in fact.”

Serana nearly gasped. _“Father”? I thought Ronan said he was an orphan..._

“The first time was when I first met him, when I was about ten. I thought he was a grumpy, mean old man — a bit of an over-simplification on my part.” She laughed, short and harsh. “Later, when I returned to the Thieves Guild after I’d grown up a little, I revised my opinion slightly. I noticed that despite his distinct lack of leadership ability, he was nevertheless able to keep order. He was still bad-tempered and foul-humored, though. He had little time for foolishness or failure, or for that matter, anyone he deemed less than him.”

“And when was the third time?” Ronan sounded subdued.

“When he betrayed the Guild,” the High Queen said curtly. “I considered him a traitor and a — and a murderer.”

Silence. Serana realized just how still she was. _To have a man like that as a father... this Mercer sounds almost as bad as Harkon._

Ronan spoke again, his voice cracking. “Thank you for telling me,” he managed. “It — it’s certainly — a straight answer.”

Again, a pause. “Mercer had a home in Riften,” the High Queen said, her tone a little softer. “Riftweald Manor. The Guild’s left it untouched since he died. If you wanted to find out more about him, I can give you the key and you can see what you might find.”

“Thank you, but I doubt that the Guild would take kindly to me returning to Riften,” Ronan said bitterly. “Some of the members confronted me the last time I was there.”

“Who?” The High Queen’s voice was sharp.

Serana could almost hear Ronan shrugging. “It doesn’t matter. The Guild doesn’t trust me, and they don’t want me anywhere near them or their affairs. I’m more than happy to oblige.” His tone was bitter.

“At least you’re resolved on that,” the High Queen said darkly. “It can be difficult to get a group to trust you if they’ve already made up their own minds about you.”

“Try impossible.” Another pause, longer this time. “I can go without the Guild’s approval. But — but I just want to learn about my father. Who he really was. That’s all I want to know about.”

 _He never knew his father._ Serana felt a surge of sympathy. _I imagine that the absence of a father would be worse than an ever-present, malevolent one._

Not wanting to hear any more of the conversation, she straightened up and started pacing the hallway, her mind filled with thoughts all competing for attention. But somehow, it always wandered back to Ronan and his evasiveness about his past.

 _Now I know why._ Her eyes went back to the door guiltily. _But did I even want to know?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Guided by their parents, Ronan and Serana plan a new course of action.


	23. Soul of Darkness (Part I)

Lying on the bed in his Guild leathers with his boots still on, staring listlessly at the ceiling of his room, Ronan barely heard the soft knock on the door. It took a moment to for him to even recognize what he had heard.

He sighed. _I really hope it’s not Finn._ “Who is it?”

“Serana. May I come in?”

 _That_ gave him pause. “Sure,” he finally said. “Go ahead.”

The door opened, and Serana slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind her. Her golden eyes flitted to him, and she smirked slightly. “Good thing I didn’t interrupt your sleep,” she said wryly. “I’m not exactly used to taking people’s sleeping schedules into account.”

Returning the gesture, Ronan sat up, swinging both feet off the blankets. “It’s fine. I’m — I’m not really tired.” He pushed his lank hair back from his forehead. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Actually, yes.” Serana grabbed a chair from over by the small fireplace and dragged it closer to the bed, seating herself in it gracefully. “Ever since Dexion told us that we needed two more Elder Scrolls, I’ve been thinking about where we might be able to find another. And I think I know now.”

Ronan frowned. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Well, those Dawnguard friends of yours aren’t exactly friendly. With the exception of you and Finn, they’d sooner kill me than talk to me. That doesn’t exactly make me want to open up. I mean,” she added with a snort, “I got a warmer welcome from my _father_ , and that’s saying something.”

“Do you trust Harkon at all?” Ronan asked. “I mean, I don’t, but...”

Serana was shaking her head. “It’s not a question of trust. He’s just obsessed with the prophecy — and from what I could tell, a thousand extra years of mania haven’t made him any better. We should have found him a hobby.” She laughed quietly to herself, but sobered. “I — I don’t even think he sees me as his daughter anymore. I’m just... a means to an end.”

 _Did Mercer think of me as his son? Or just a bastard boy he wanted nothing to do with?_ Shaking the unwelcome thoughts out of his head, Ronan addressed her. “Do you think your father has realized that there’s more to the prophecy than your Elder Scroll?”

Serana shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. He could have suspected it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because the person who we need to find who will know where it is — maybe even have it herself if we’re lucky — is my mother. Valerica.”

He dimly remembered Harkon’s mention of Serana’s “traitor mother,” but not much else. _It would make sense... if Harkon knew about the prophecy being in multiple Scrolls, then anyone who stole one from him would surely be considered a turncoat._ “Do you even know where she is?”

Serana shook her head. “The last time I saw her, she said that she’d go somewhere safe. Somewhere that my father would never search. Other than that, she wouldn’t tell me anything.” She furrowed her brow. “But the way she said it... ‘somewhere he would never search.’ It was... well, _cryptic_ , but she called attention to it.”

“Maybe she was just being cautious,” Ronan suggested.

“Perhaps. But what I can’t figure out is why she said it that way. Besides,” she added, her frown deepening, “I can’t imagine a single place where my father would avoid looking. And he’s had all the time in the world to do it, too.”

“Do you think she could have been sealed away like you were?” Ronan asked.

Serana pursed her lips. “No,” she said finally, “I don’t think so. She said she wanted to stay awake in case the situation was resolved. But... it had to be one of us, and...” Her voice faltered. “Well, she’s so more powerful than I am. It — it just made sense for her to stay out here.”

The Breton thought some more, then he smiled. “Hiding with the Dawnguard?”

 _That_ got a laugh from her. “They’d have been even _less_ welcoming to her than they’ve been to me. It would have been a bloodbath. And,” she continued, smirking, “since the Dawnguard are still around, that must not have happened.”

Ronan laughed, albeit a bit more tiredly. “Then where else could she be? I’d think she’d probably want to distance herself from Castle Volkihar as much as — what?” he asked, seeing Serana’s thoughtful frown return to her face.

“There’s a courtyard in the castle,” Serana said slowly. “I used to help her tend a garden there. That’s where all the ingredients for our potions came from. My mother used to say that my father couldn’t stand the place, that it was too... peaceful.”

Ronan’s eyebrows went up. “You think Valerica’s in Castle Volkihar somewhere? Isn’t that... well, _risky_?”

“Absolutely. But my mother’s not a coward. That is,” she amended, “I don’t think that we’ll actually trip over her there. But... it might be worth a look.”

“It’s our only lead, so, yes,” Ronan confessed. “But you do realize that your father’s not exactly going to let us walk in through the front door like last time.”

Serana smiled, displaying her fangs. “There’s an unused inlet on the northern side of the island that was used by the previous owners to bring supplies into the castle, and there’s an old escape tunnel that exits there. That’s our way in.”

Ronan thought for a moment. _It’s not the worst plan… but…_ “Say we find your mother,” he said. “Will she even help us?”

Serana frowned slightly. “I — I think it’s likely,” she finally said. “She probably will. Before my father became obsessed with the prophecy, Mother and I spent quite a bit of time together. That alchemical garden in the courtyard — she was very fond of it. She taught me quite a bit about cultivating quality reagents.” Her eyes seemed to light up at the fond memory. “We got along like... like the best of friends. I would never hesitate to share anything with her.”

Ronan sensed the subtle shift in her demeanor, her tone. “But then it all changed.”

Serana nodded. “It — it was very sudden. It was almost like one day, we were a normal family, and then the next... I didn’t know who they were.” Her face fell further with every word. “I’d try to visit my mother in the alchemical garden, but she’d shoo me away, saying she was much too busy.”

“You think that Valerica might have been up to something in the garden,” Ronan surmised.

“She had to.” Serana’s voice was full of conviction. “I just hope it’ll be something that tells us where she went.” She was silent for a moment.

Then: “I’d rather not dwell on my own family anymore.” Serana leaned back in her seat with a quiet sigh. “Could you — could you tell me more about your family?”

“I already told you: I never knew my parents,” Ronan said tiredly.

“Is that why you’re looking for information about your father now?”

Her question hit him with the impact of a punch to the chest. He stared at her in silent shock for what seemed to be an eternity, and then the import of it registered fully. “You heard my conversation with Kajsa,” he accused. “You — you have no right to —”

Serana raised her hands defensively. “I can’t help it if my hearing’s better than most.” Lowering her hands, her gaze turned more sympathetic. “Why didn’t you tell me about your father, Ronan?”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about, and I don’t want to talk about it,” he said abruptly. “Mercer — _my father —_ was a liar, a traitor, and a murderer, and that’s good enough for most.”

“But not you,” Serana said simply.

Ronan sighed, frustrated. “Look, I — I want to try to understand him, to find out why he abandoned me, but it’s — it’s just hard,” he finished, a lump rising in his throat. “The only people who can tell me anything about him take one look at my face — _his_ face — and place judgment on me before I can even get a word out of my mouth.”

Recognition flashed in her eyes. “Those thugs at the Bee and Barb.”

He nodded. “They were with the Thieves Guild. Mercer used to be their Guildmaster.” Ronan became dimly aware of the fact that his hands were clenching into nervous fists around each other, his uneven nails digging into his palms. “He was stealing from the Guild’s vaults for a long time. When his predecessor found out, Mercer killed him and framed another for the deed.” He laughed humorlessly. “I think you can see why they were angry at me.”

“That’s a bit unreasonable,” Serana said, clearly chagrined. “That’s like... well, like you shunning me because I’m Harkon’s daughter.”

“Exactly.” Ronan gave her a sad smile. “You have no idea how nice it is to be around someone who can see past my face.” _But now that you know of my family’s past... will you place judgment on me same as the others?_

Serana returned the gesture. “Same.” Her pale brow furrowed into another frown. “But where does Nocturnal fit into all of this?”

He blinked, then realized that he’d also spoken about that with Kajsa and sighed heavily. _She suffered at the hands of the Daedra, and I have a Daedric Prince inside my head... what must she think of me?_ “She has designs on me,” Ronan finally said. “I don’t know what in Oblivion they are, but in the meantime, She’s inside my head. I’d — I’d rather not get into the mechanics of it.”

Serana nodded. “Fair enough. I just... I would just rather not get into the habit of keeping secrets from people that I trust. It’s just better for both of us that way.”

Ronan lowered his eyes from hers, his words sticking in his throat. “Maybe I’ll feel up to talking about Mercer or my past or Nocturnal at another time,” he managed. “Just not now.” _I don’t want to keep secrets either; they’ve brought me nothing but misery in recent days._

_But... I don’t want you to hate me..._

He heard a faint shifting of fabric and the creaking of the mattress, and felt a new weight on the bed as Serana sat next to him, placing one cold hand on his shoulder. “After we find my mother, I can help you find out more about Mercer if you like,” she offered.

Surprised, Ronan looked over. “You would do that for me?” he asked quietly, feeling the shame brought on by the revelation ebbing.

She smiled wryly. “Right now, you’re my only friend. And I try to make a point of helping my friends when possible.”

He gazed at her for a moment. Up close, Serana’s unearthly beauty was all the more noticeable: the radiance of her pale, unblemished skin; the glow of her golden eyes; the luster of her dark, smooth hair... he wondered why he’d never fully realized how lovely she was before.

Nocturnal laughed lightly. _I believe that thanks are in order, Ronan. You can return to your..._ entertaining _mortal thoughts later._

Ronan found his voice again. “Thank you, Serana,” he said. “I — I would appreciate that. A lot.” Turning slightly, he leaned over, and before he could change his mind, he gave her a small hug.

Serana returned the gesture: briefly, but with her arms wrapping around him tightly, almost intimately in that single moment. Then she withdrew. It was hard to see, but Ronan thought that there could have been a small smile on her face.

 

 _This form — this frail, pathetic human form — is weak, even among others of her kind._ He held up one of her hands in front of His face and examined it critically; it was small and pale, with only a few calluses. _Hardly fitting for one such as I._

 _But I will not stay here for long._ He dropped it, and it fell limply to her side. _This journey will set me free._

The Vigilant’s eyes were frustratingly slow to adjust to the dim light, but they finally managed to make out twisted shapes in the dark: a low stone dais stained with blood blackened by the passage of time, an altar of ebony formed in the shape of a horned skull — and the Mace, suspended in the air above the altar, gleaming with a sinister, hungry jade light.

Right where His Unfaithful had abandoned it.

Beside him, His Disciple spoke. “This is the place that she spoke of. I can feel it.”

“I had haunted this place for many years.” His voice sounded strange to her ears: deep, cruelly clear tones that were not her own. “You think I would not know it?” _Her mind was strong, much more so than her body... but it fell to me in the end. They always do._

He smiled to himself, feeling her stiff facial muscles contort into a vicious smile. _But unlike most, this one provided good sport while she lasted._

“Of course not, my Master,” His Disciple replied.

He did not answer, drinking in the Mace — _His_ Mace — with these foreign eyes. Even in a form numbed to the subtleties and nuances of Oblivion, He could feel the power He’d imbued in it.

The power that would release Him.

“You know what to do, my Disciple.”

His Disciple nodded. Gliding up to the altar, he took the Mace from midair with a reverent touch, gripping it in one hand. His other hand drew out a single black soul gem, pale and perfectly cut, from the folds of his robes.

He did not kneel; He would not humiliate His vessel at the expense of humbling Himself. “Try to make it quick,” He said darkly, folding the Vigilant’s hands in front of Him. “There will be more time for games in the war to come.”

Once again, His Disciple bowed his head in assent. Then, he lifted His Mace and lunged.

Deep within, what remained of the mind of His vessel screamed in agony as the spikes of the weapon tore into the Vigilant’s torso with the heavy swing, sending blood spattering across her already filthy robes and gouging out her fragile soul. As His vessel collapsed, eyes blank with death, and as the last shreds of her soul seeped into the black soul gem, turning it a deep, dark, roiling purple, His essence rose from her body in a smoky, shadowy haze.

He let out a long, low laugh, relishing its echo in the underground cavern. _Free — free of that mortal shell at last. And at such a perfect time..._

He addressed His Disciple, the true power of His words reverberating and growling in the space. _YOU HAVE DONE WELL, MY DISCIPLE._ He extended an arm of smoke, tipped in razor-like claws, and pointed to His Mace, covered in the Vigilant’s blood. _TAKE UP MY MACE AS A TOKEN OF MY GRATITUDE. YOU WILL NEED IT TO EXACT MY WILL._

From beneath the gloom of his hood, His Disciple smiled. “I am honored to accept it, my Lord.” He slipped the filled black soul gem into the folds of his robes once again. “What is Your desire, my Lord?”

 _I NEED A NEW VESSEL, MY DISCIPLE._ The hollows in the smoke that served as His eyes fixed upon His Disciple, seeing him with perfect clarity. _AND THEN WE CAN BEGIN TO REALIZE THE PROPHECY AT LAST._

“And what of my own aims, my Lord?” The smile had turned cold. “What of my vengeance?”

Molag Bal smiled, fangs forming from the shadows. _IT WILL COME, MY DISCIPLE._ OUR _VENGEANCE ON THE UNFAITHFUL WILL COME WITH MY DOMINION._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana infiltrate Castle Volkihar.


	24. Soul of Darkness (Part II)

Rowing the tiny boat over the restless, dark waters towards the northern side of Castle Volkihar, Ronan felt his wandering mind circling back to the same conclusion again and again: something had changed between him and Serana, and he wasn’t quite sure what that “something” was. 

Whatever it was, he felt different somehow: like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, a weight that he hadn’t really noticed until its removal. And somehow, he suspected that the weight in question was Mercer. 

Ronan snuck a glance at Serana, sitting towards the prow of the boat with her hood up and her cloak wrapped tightly around her. He hadn’t planned on telling her about his father; now that he’d had time to think on it, he was a little grateful that Serana had discovered his secret on her own. But what surprised him most was her reaction: not condemning, but rather sympathetic. 

 _Perhaps it’s because she understands what it’s like to have issues with one’s father,_ he thought. _But... I’d like to believe that —_

Serana spoke, her wry voice cutting through his thoughts. “The castle looks so big from down here. I mean, it _is_ big, but... well, it looks even bigger.”

Ronan turned his eyes upwards. Nearly hidden by the swirling snow, the high walls of Castle Volkihar towered over them, making it seem much more foreboding — _more so than it already is, anyway,_ he amended. 

“Do you think that we’ll encounter any resistance at the inlet?” he mused aloud. 

Serana shrugged. “Who knows. My father couldn’t care less about security, so there’s a good chance it’ll be unguarded. One of the benefits of arrogance, I guess.” She nearly smirked, but then her expression turned worried. “Although...”

“What?” Ronan questioned. 

“There was a Vigilant of Stendarr that made it onto the island a while ago,” Serana said slowly. “I’m not sure where she landed, but she got captured by a patrol regardless.” She frowned. “If my father has finally realized that the castle’s not entirely impervious to attack, we might have a fight _—_ or two _—_ on our hands.”

Ronan’s eyes widened. “You saw Fenella?” he asked in disbelief. 

“The Vigilant?” When he affirmed it, Serana nodded. “Do you know her?”

“Not very well. She was at the Hall of the Vigilant when it was attacked, and she tried to seek aid from the High King and Queen in order to hunt down the vampires. She didn’t really strike me as being mentally stable,” he added, and immediately regretted voicing his judgment afterwards. _That’s not fair of me to say. Fenella lost everything in the space of a night; of_ course _she’s not going to be acting like herself._

Serana pursed her lips. “There was definitely something strange about her,” she agreed. “Not in the way she acted, but... there was something _dark_ surrounding her...” Her voice trailed off. “One of the court members seemed to think she was a sign. A sign from Molag Bal.”

Ronan swallowed. “Which one was that?”

“I don’t know his name,” Serana said, “and he always wears a hooded cloak that conceals his face. But I know he’s one of my kind, and that he’s a very powerful mage.” Her face turned grim. “Worse still, my father seems to _respect_ him. We should hope that we don’t run into him — or either of them.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The only sound was that of the water slapping against and battering the boat’s hull, occasionally splashing over into the boat itself. 

Ronan spoke then, as the awful thought formed in his head. “Do you think that Fenella… was like me? That she had a connection to a Daedric Prince in her mind?”

“I’m beginning to suspect it, yes.” Serana’s face seemed paler now. “Having Molag Bal in your head... that’s not something I would wish on anyone.”

“Neither I,” he agreed. “At least Nocturnal isn’t wholly malevolent.”

Nocturnal laughed sardonically. _Always the optimist._

“How long has She been talking to you?” Serana asked. “Did it happen before or after Dimhollow?”

“Before,” Ronan answered, “but not long before.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It was around the same time I learned who my father was. Mercer...” He sucked in a deep breath, the cold air sticking in his throat. “In addition to his crimes against the Guild, he defied Nocturnal and stole one of Her artifacts. She sent agents of hers after him to kill him and retrieve what he stole.”

Serana’s golden eyes turned dark. “Are you saying that — that Nocturnal’s punishing _you_ for what your father did?” she questioned, an angry edge to her voice. “That’s — well, I wouldn’t say it’s atypical of the Daedra, but —”

“I don’t know,” Ronan said simply, wearily. “I just don’t know.”

 _My aims are not for you to know,_ Nocturnal replied. _Not until the proper time._

 _And when will_ that _be?_ he demanded. 

 _Soon,_ she purred. _Very soon._

 

> **_Day 14_ **
> 
> _I knew I should have volunteered for the excavation earlier. For months, Moric had been going on to the Vigilants about detecting mystical energies deep in the east mountains. Said he’d found some old tomes about the ruins of “Ruunvald,” or something like that: a Nordic tomb thousands of years old. I remember thinking “Yeah, if it’s so old, how come no one’s found it yet? There’s plenty of adventurers wandering around these parts.”_
> 
> _Seemed like most of the other Vigilants agreed; we had more important things to do. But Moric took a team and went digging, and when he started turning up a long-buried temple,_ well _… didn’t I feel like a troll in a dung heap._
> 
> _Soon enough, he was sending back letters to the Hall, begging for as many men as we could send. I didn’t volunteer at first; still seemed like a myth to me. But when word came back that they’d hit the main chamber, I packed up and headed this way to help. Always did want to be a part of history, and better late than never, they say._
> 
> _Well, “they” didn’t mention that the latecomers would be stuck with guard duty. I just sit up here all day, watching for bandits and wolves, neither of which I’ve seen. Mostly I just see diggers coming up for supplies. Gotta say, I been seeing them a lot less regular, now that I think about it..._
> 
> **_Day 19_ **
> 
> _All right, it’s been three days since anyone’s come up. The last one to emerge was Apa, and he just walked around a bit with a weird vacant look in his eyes. Told Florentius and me to come down as soon as we had the chance, then trudged back in._
> 
> _Something ain’t right, and I aims to find out what..._

Heaving a sigh, Finverior closed the journal and tossed it back on the bedroll that he’d found it on. He’d already had a nasty feeling that finding Florentius wasn’t going to be easy, and this Vigilant’s journal that he’d found was only confirming that suspicion

 _If this... Volk person is right, then something’s keeping the Vigilants in that tomb._ He glanced at the entrance to the Ruunvald excavation with more than a little trepidation. _And I’m walking right in there. What a fabulous plan, Finn,_ he thought sarcastically. _You really fucking excel at getting yourself into dangerous situations._

Steeling his nerves — and drawing his bow from off his back and readying an arrow — Finverior hesitantly approached the yawning mouth of the cave. 

 

“Do you think we’re nearly there?” Ronan stopped on the landing of the small, winding staircase, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “It seems like we’ve been combing these ruins for hours.”

“I believe we’re on the right track, though.” Even though she didn’t seem fatigued, Serana stopped next to him. “All these little puzzles, all the subtle clues... this trail is definitely my mother’s work. If my father had ever found it, he would have lost patience trying to figure it out long ago.”

After entering the castle’s undercroft, the two of them had carefully navigated through endless sewer tunnels and abandoned dungeons, finally arriving at a half-buried entrance to the castle courtyard. After digging their way through the debris, they’d finally managed to get the door open — but the sight that awaited them was not a pleasant one.

Overgrown and choked with weeds, suffering from centuries of neglect, Castle Volkihar’s courtyard was in a miserable state, and Serana said as much. “My father must have done this after he discovered that Mother had fled. Knowing him, anything that would have reminded him of her was... just destroyed,” she said quietly, glancing at the crudely sealed-off door into the main hall. “I — I used to walk through here after evening meals. It was beautiful once.” She sighed sorrowfully. “Mother would have hated to see it like this.”

Serana’s melancholy seemed to fade once she noticed that the ancient moondial (“The previous owners of the castle had a sundial here, and obviously, that didn’t appeal to my mother,” she said with a small, dry smile. “She persuaded an elven artisan to make some changes to it. My father was aghast at the cost, but Mother insisted.”) was missing some of the crests at its base. She quickly set Ronan to hunting them down: a challenging task considering all of the winding vines and untamed plants that had taken over the courtyard.

Once he’d retrieved them and put them in place, the center ring of the moondial sunk into the ground, forming a staircase to a door leading into old tunnels that ran under Castle Volkihar and into the ruins of an old tower. “Very clever, Mother,” Serana murmured as they descended the steps. “Now I know why she didn’t just rip this thing out.”

The ruined tower was more perilous than the mostly deserted undercroft, seeing as that gargoyles lurked in shadowy nooks throughout. By the time the two reached the hidden entrance to the set of stairs they were currently scaling — hidden behind a crumbling fireplace — Ronan had gone through two of his healing potions to patch up various wounds: nothing immediately serious, but he judged that they could slow him down if they had any farther to go.

“You think your father never searched for your mother here?” His breath caught, Ronan continued up the stairs.

Serana followed him. “It’s likely. Knowing my father, he probably would have searched for her in — well, anywhere but here. His anger at Mother probably blinded him to anything that would have led him to the garden, let alone the ruined tower.”

They rounded the corner, and Serana squeezed past him on the stairs, racing up to the small, pointed wooden door at the top. “This is it,” she said, grasping the door handle. “I think we’re near the top of the tower now. Whatever’s behind this door... if Mother’s not here, we can probably figure out where she’s gone.”

Slowly, she opened the door wide and stepped over the threshold, nearly vanishing into the darkened room. Ronan cautiously followed her inside, closing the door behind them. When he glanced back over his shoulder to try and squint through the gloom, his breath caught in his throat.

Serana had cast a shining ball of magelight up towards the ceiling, allowing it to illuminate the chamber. It was small and square, but with small alcoves tucked away in the corners, and stairs leading up to a high balcony that dominated the space. In the center of the floor, surrounded by candles that had long since burned out, was a circle formed of sunken rings of stone.

 _It’s a laboratory,_ Ronan realized, looking around and seeing the alchemy worktable in the corner and the neat bookshelf of thick tomes in the corner. _But what was Valerica doing in here?_

“Look at this place,” Serana breathed. “This — this has to be it!” Slowly walking forward, she gazed around the chamber in wonder. “I had no idea my mother had a setup like this.” Her eyes turned to the dusty tables and shelves of carefully bottled and labeled ingredients. “It must have taken her ages to collect all of these components.”

“What do you make of this?” Ronan asked, crouching down by the circle.

Serana frowned. “I’m not sure. But it obviously has some significance.” She lifted up one of the candlesticks around the circle’s outside edge, brushing one finger over the dried wax on the candle itself. “These are some of Mother’s old ritual candles. She used them in her necromancy.” She carefully set it down again, placing the candlestick right-side up. “She must have been experimenting here.”

Suddenly getting the feeling that he didn’t really want to be near the circle, Ronan stood back up. “Any idea what she was experimenting on?”

Serana shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t even know that this place existed. She had an alchemy worktable in her drawing room, but nothing like — like _this._ ” She gestured around the chamber.

“Maybe your mother had something to do with all those gargoyles back there,” he suggested, half-joking.

Serana smiled slightly. “I don’t think so. She found magical constructs fascinating, but gargoyles were a bit too unsettling, even for her.” Frowning slightly, her gaze went back to the ring of candles. “Judging by the equipment and materials, it looks like she was trying to advance her necromancy.”

“To what end?” Ronan inquired.

“Not longevity, anyway. Kind of a waste of time for a vampire.” Her frown deepened in thought. “Mother was very meticulous about her research. She would have kept notes or a journal of some kind; maybe that’ll tell us where she’s gone.”

“Probably a good place to start,” Ronan agreed. “I’ll look over here if you look elsewhere.”

Serana nodded and moved off towards the stairs to the balcony. Ronan turned and walked towards the miniature library in one of the alcoves, tracing his fingers along the spines of the books and reading the titles as he went. _All abut magical theory, necromancy, and ancient legends... Valerica was up to something..._

His fingers stopped on a thin, leather-bound notebook with pages sticking out of the end. He quickly pulled it out and flipped it open to the last few pages, struggling to read the narrow script.

> **_27th Last Seed_ **
> 
> _Harkon’s shortsightedness is becoming a serious problem. I’ve warned him time and time again that his foolish prophecy would cast far too much light on our people, and yet, he refuses to so much as listen to a word I say. I’ve become less a wife and more of an annoyance in his eyes. Devoting attention to my work is the only solace I can find while enduring his ridiculous crusade._

_This must be Valerica’s journal._ “Serana!” Ronan called. “I found something!”

“You did?” Serana raced back down the stairs and across the floor, coming to a stop by him. “Let me see that.”

Ronan handed it over. “Is it —?”

“Yes,” she answered, scanning the page that he’d opened it to. “This is definitely my mother’s handwriting.”

“Could you read it?” he asked. “I’m having difficulty making it out.”

Serana nodded, clearing her throat and beginning to read.

> **_28th Last Seed_ **
> 
> _I’ve had a breakthrough today. I was able to attune the portal vessel to the Soul Cairn properly by using a small sample of ingredients. Although the portal opened only for a few seconds, I’m confident that with the proper formula, it can be sustained indefinitely. I feel like I’m missing a key ingredient, something of sufficient potency that can resist the forces trying to prevent my intrusion._

Ronan frowned. “What’s this ‘Soul Cairn’ that she mentions?”

“Mother had a theory about soul gems: that the souls inside of them don’t just vanish when they’re used; they end up in a tiny sliver of Oblivion called the Soul Cairn,” Serana explained. “According to legend, the Soul Cairn is home to very powerful beings. Necromancers send them souls and receive powers of their own in return.”

“Why did she care where used souls went?”

Serana sighed. “I remember her trying to directly contact these beings, even trying to reach the Soul Cairn itself.” She glanced at the sunken circle in the center of the room. “I’m starting to think that she figured out how to get there.”

Ronan followed her gaze in disbelief. “ _That_ leads to the Soul Cairn?”

“It would certainly explain the existence of this laboratory.” Face now drawn and worried, Serana read on.

> _Communing with the Ideal Masters has proved worthless. They speak in riddles and offer no assistance whether I ensure them a steady supply of souls or not. If I’m to escape Harkon’s clutches, I need to keep the portal open long enough to carry me away from here... forever if need be._

“So she _was_ looking into entering the Soul Cairn as a way to escape my father,” Serana mused. “That — that makes more sense than just necromancy.”

“Who are the Ideal Masters?” Ronan asked. “Some of those beings you mentioned earlier?”

Serana nodded. “The unseen rulers of the Soul Cairn. As far as I’ve heard, no one’s seen them and returned to Tamriel to tell about it?”

“Then how is anyone sure they exist?” Ronan said. “That seems like a bit of a discrepancy in scholarship if you ask me.”

“I’ve read plenty of stories about fools that managed to communicate with them. They gave the Ideal Masters souls, and the Masters gave them powers to summon the dead. It’s all very businesslike.” Serana smiled humorlessly. “And I say ‘fools’ because most of the stories end with the Ideal Masters duping the necromancers, who end up dead or wishing they were dead.”

“You don’t think that happened to your mother, do you?”

Serana sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I hope not, but given the Masters’ reputation...” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes turned back to the page. Suddenly, she gasped.

“What is it?” Ronan tried to crane his head around to see the writing, but he was unable to.

“My mother figured out how to sustain the portal. If I’m reading this right, she wrote down the formula that should give us safe passage into the Soul Cairn.” Serana scanned the page with sharp eyes. “We need a handful of soul gem shards, some finely-ground bone meal, a good bit of purified void salts — oh, _dammit_.”

“What’s wrong?” Ronan asked. “Is the recipe not complete?”

“Well, she didn’t write down the exact amounts we need, but that’s not the problem,” Serana said tightly. “We’re also going to need a sample of her blood as a reactive agent — which if we _could_ get that, we wouldn’t even be trying to do this in the first place.”

Ronan thought for a moment. “I may not know much about alchemy, but... you share her blood. Would that work?”

Serana blinked. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “It might work — or at least, I _hope_ it will. Mistakes with portals to Oblivion can be gruesome.”

Thinking of his brief passage through the Evergloam, Ronan tried not to shudder. “Is there anything else in there?” he asked, trying to get his mind off of that notion. “I’m assuming that Valerica made it to the Soul Cairn.”

Serana nodded, and read the last sentences out loud. “‘I will make my way into the Soul Cairn tomorrow after I gather my things and prepare for a potentially lengthy exile. More importantly —’” she swallowed and then continued “‘— I must enact my plans with Serana, and get her to Dimhollow Crypt as soon as possible.’”

The implications of the journal’s words sunk in. “You… knew that this whole thing was your mother’s plan all along?” he asked.

“I didn’t know that she was going to the Soul Cairn,” Serana said a bit defensively. “And I didn’t know about Dimhollow until she actually brought me there. She didn’t even tell me _why_ we were there at first: just gave me the Elder Scroll and then —” She let out a shaking breath. “I knew that my father was obsessed with the prophecy, but I didn’t have any idea that it had gone so far as to warrant my mother’s actions.”

Ronan was silent, wishing he hadn’t brought it up.

Serana sighed tiredly. “It doesn’t matter now. We — we just need to find her.” She turned away, still clutching the journal on her hands. “Let’s find those ingredients she mentioned. They have to be around here somewhere.”

“I knew it! I _knew_ Arkay would save me!” Florentius said enthusiastically, a grin spreading across his tanned face. “I asked for help and He sent you!”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far, pal.” Finverior unlocked the cell door and stood aside to allow the man inside out. “If Sorine or Gunmar hadn’t said anything —”

He was cut off by the other’s ramblings. “You are a very welcome addition to this dreary place, friend. I owe both you and Arkay a great deal.” Florentius seized his hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m sure I’ll manage to repay Him later, but what can I do for you?”

“Well, for starters, we’re getting out of here.” Finverior cast a glance back down the stairs of Ruunvald’s main chamber, where small piles of ashes and bodies alike littered the floor. _I’ve had enough mindfuckery in this place to last me a lifetime._

Florentius followed his gaze. “Do you grieve?” he asked, his voice no longer boisterous, but rather quiet and reverent. “Do you feel as though you could have saved those Vigilants?”

Finverior shrugged. “I tried to talk some of them down, but... none of them were all there mentally.” He started down the steps. “I don’t think there was anything I could have done, and I just need to be content with that.”

Much to his surprise, there had been plenty of Vigilants still left in Ruunvald, but when he’d first approached one of them, the Vigilant in question turned around and swung a pickaxe at his head; Finverior had knocked that one out. As he went further and further in, all of the other Vigilants were the same: blank eyes, shambling gait, single-minded determination to kill him, and strangest of all, an odd red fog surrounding their heads. Finverior guessed it was the effects of some kind of Illusion spell, but what that might be and how in Oblivion it’d been sustained for so long, he had no idea.

More disturbing were the journals written by the expedition leader, Moric Sidrey. The entries started out coherent enough, but as Finverior read further, Sidrey seemed to fall further and further into madness, mentioning headaches, memory loss, and even a voice calling to him — “Minorne,” Sidrey called her, praising her with a zealot’s fervor in the last few entries.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, Finverior crossed to the corpse of a female Altmer: the “Minorne” that the mad Vigilant had written of, the one that he suspected of enthralling both Sidrey and the Vigilants. “Besides the fact that she cast a spell on all the Vigilants and locked you in a cage, did you notice anything else unusual about her?”

“Yes, actually.” Florentius hurried over, kneeling down and gingerly picking up the staff that lay by Minorne’s side. “She seemed to be using this to control the other Vigilants.”

Taking it from him, Finverior peered at it. It was made of reddened wood, with bronze ornamentation and a pale blue gem topping it, but the wood was cracked with age and the bronze tarnished. The gem, however, seemed to pulsate with cold light.

“From what I overheard in her... “conversations” with Moric, she seems to have commanded the first of the enthralled Vigilants to excavate it from an antechamber nearby.” Florentius’s face turned grave as he gestured back up the stairs, to a small doorway covered in rubble. “Once she got what she wanted, she collapsed the ceiling.”

“How did she enthrall the Vigilants in the first place then?” Finverior asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “From what I witnessed, whatever she used wasn’t just some Illusion spell.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Florentius agreed. “It easily overwhelmed the Vigilants; I was only spared due to the blessings of Arkay.” He frowned. “It — I could feel it, though. Something powerful and very malevolent. Almost —”

“— vampiric?” Finverior suggested, turning over Minorne’s body. It took all of his resolve to not flinch at the sight of the dead vampire’s red eyes and gleaming fangs; it almost seemed like she was still alive — in a sense.

Florentius grimaced. “Yes, that would certainly do it.” He frowned, pensive. “I’ve heard tell of vampires with heightened magical abilities, especially the Aundae Clan of Vvardenfell. But why would one be so far away from the rest of their clan? For nothing that boded well, I’m sure.” He clambered to his feet. “We must return to the Hall of the Vigilant and tell them of this.”

Finverior coughed uncomfortably. “Uh, Florentius... how long have you been down here?”

“I’m not quite sure, to tell you the truth. But I’ve been here assisting with the expedition for some months now — two months, I believe.” Florentius’s frown grew deeper. “Or was it three?”

Finverior sighed. “Well, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but — vampires destroyed the Hall of the Vigilant. As far as I know, there weren’t any survivors.”

Florentius stared at him in shock. “Blessed Arkay,” he finally murmured, stricken. “Am I really the only one left?” His expression turned to confusion. “Then if you’re not with the Vigil — and I’m assuming you’re not — then who sent you?”

“Isran. Sort of,” Finverior amended. “He needs your help.”

Florentius’s eyes widened. “Isran? My help?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “Is this — is this some kind of joke? Did Arkay put you up to this?”

“Well, I’m not exactly a religious man —”

“Isran’s done nothing but mock me,” Florentius continued angrily, ignoring him. “He’s never given me the respect that I ask for, and while I appreciate you helping me out, if you think I’m going to go to _Isran_ , I —”

Florentius stopped suddenly, cocking his head as if listening to something. “No, that’s not what I —” He paused again, as if interrupted. “Yes, but —” Another pause. “Are You sure? _Really?_ ”

Finverior raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Not _you_ ,” Florentius sighed. “Arkay seems to think it would be a good idea for me to go with you. Given my history with Isran, I heartily disagree, but Arkay’s not the kind of fellow you can just ignore.”

 _I’m beginning to get a sense of why Isran didn’t want you around either._ “Look at it this way, Florentius,” Finverior said with a smirk and a shrug of his shoulders. “You might be near Isran, but you’ll be fighting vampires.”

The other nodded, as if that argument was familiar to him — _and maybe it already is,_ Finverior thought. “I presume he’s still slaving away on that fortress of his — Fort Dawnguard, is it?” Florentius asked.

“Do you need a guide?” Finverior was desperately hoping that he’d say no; however easy on the eyes Florentius was, he was definitely off his rocker.

Thankfully, his prayers were not in vain. “Oh, I can find the way,” Florentius dismissed. “Arkay will guide me.”

 _I’m sure._ Finverior glanced down at Minorne’s body. _Besides, I’ve got a trip to Windhelm to make. The High Queen will definitely want to hear about this._

 

“Can I ask you something, Serana?” Ronan carefully put down the last of the emptied bowls down by the alchemy station; this particular one had held the purified void salts, the last of what they needed for Valerica’s recipe.

“Of course.” Serana looked up from examining the contents of the vessel. “What is it?”

“If your mother really is in the Soul Cairn... what will you do when we find her?”

Serana sighed softly. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing since we came back here.” She turned to him. “I — I don’t know what I’d say to her. She was so sure of what she planned to do to my father, I couldn’t help but go along with her... and be imprisoned in Dimhollow.” Her golden eyes were melancholy once more. “I — I never thought of the cost.”

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds like she did all this to protect you both,” Ronan offered hesitantly. “Maybe Harkon had a large part to do with her plan, but... it seemed like she didn’t want you to fall prey to him.”

Serana shrugged wearily. “I guess. I suppose a vampire mother is still a mother. But what you just said... that was what _I_ thought once.” Her voice was becoming more anguished. “I always thought that she wanted to get me as far away from my father as possible before he really went over the edge, but now... now, I’m not so sure of that.”

Unsure of what else to do, Ronan reached out and tentatively put his hand on her shoulder. “We won’t know until we find her,” he said quietly. “Then you can ask her about everything.”

Serana nodded. “Yes... yes, you’re right. I’m — I’m sorry about that.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said gently. “I know what it’s like to question your parents’ motives.”

Serana smiled slightly. “Of course.” Her smile faded. “I know that you know _something_ about your father, but... what about your own mother?”

Ronan shook his head. “I don’t know who she was — her face, her name, _nothing_. I don’t even know if she and my father were married or not. All I know is that — that she gave me up.” A lump rose in his throat and he looked down, away from her. “I just... I think you’re lucky that you have a mother who cares about you, even a little bit.”

He felt Serana’s hand on his arm, cool and comforting. “If your father was as bad of a man as mine is, maybe your mother was trying to protect you as well,” she said simply.

“Maybe,” he replied hopelessly. “I — I just wish I knew why.”

“Perhaps we can discover why,” Ronan said. “After we find my mother — and maybe the other Elder Scroll — we can go to Riften and try to find out more about your past.” Her eyes met his. “I promise I’ll help. It’s the least I can do for all you’ve done for me.”

Ronan nodded, words beyond him.

“Are you ready to go?” Serana asked. “I’m not entirely sure what’ll happen when I add my blood, but whatever it is, we should be prepared.”

“Yes — yes, I’m ready,” he said quickly. “Thank you, Serana. That was — kind of you.”

A ghost of a smile on her lips, Serana moved towards the vessel again. Loosening her bracer and baring her wrist, she bit it, and then allowed a few drops of her blood to fall.

Almost instantly, the chamber was bathed in an eerie purple light. Below the balcony, the circle of candles flared to life, and the rings of the sunken circle began to break apart: some floating upwards and others down, slowly shifting and scraping into place to form some sort of crude stairway, narrowing at the bottom as they led into a pale, whispering void.

“By the blood of my ancestors…” Serana gasped. “She actually did it! Mother created a portal to the Soul Cairn! This — this is incredible.”

In awe, Ronan nodded. “Shall I?” he asked, gesturing to the stairway. “Or does ‘ladies first’ still hold?” he added jokingly.

Serana’s smile became a little more apparent. “No, go ahead. It wouldn’t be right to let myself have all the fun.”

Taking a deep breath, Ronan stepped down from the balcony and onto the first step and then to the next, taking care with his footing. He descended slowly, drawing closer and closer to the wisps of light that emanated from the void —

Suddenly, one of them brushed his sleeve, and he reeled back with a cry of pain, feeling as though something had bitten into his flesh. His heart started pounding fiercely, and his breath seemed to come in shorter and shorter gasps. Falling onto the steps, Ronan struggled back up them, half-walking and half-crawling; the higher he went, the more his heart calmed until its beating was regular once again.

“Are you all right?” Serana helped him up, her small, slender hands cold against him. “That — that looked painful.”

“It — it was,” he agreed, glancing at his arm. It looked normal enough, but there was still an uncomfortable tingling sensation pricking at his skin. “Do you know what happened?”

“Now that I think about it... I should have expected this to happen. I’m so sorry.” Her face showed real regret. “It’s — it’s hard to describe. The Soul Cairn is... well... _hungry_ , for lack of a better term. It’s trying to take your life essence.”

Ronan’s shoulders slumped. “So… I can’t go in there while I’m alive?” he asked, staring at the void. Now, the paleness of it seemed infinitely more sinister, like the pall of a corpse. “There’s no way in for me, then.”

“There might be, but... I don’t think you’re going to like it.” Serana’s speech was halting. “Vampires aren’t counted among the living; I could probably go through that portal without a problem. But as for you...” Her voice trailed off.

It dawned on him. “Are you saying I need to become a vampire?” he managed, shocked.

“I guess that’s not your first choice.” Serana tried to smile, but it was strained.

“Is there any other way?” Ronan asked hopelessly.

_Oh, but there is._

Ronan frowned. _What do You mean?_

 _The Ideal Masters may be powerful in their own right, but even_ they _are not foolhardy enough to challenge the authority and might of a Daedric Prince._ Nocturnal stated it matter-of-factly, but she sounded a little bit smug. _If you gave your soul over to me — utterly and completely — I would be able to protect you. The Ideal Masters would not be able to claim your life then._

Stunned, Ronan gaped.

 _Besides, I hardly think you want to fall under the control of Molag Bal,_ Nocturnal continued. _He is not quite as nice to his Champions as I can be._

 _But Kajsa’s Your Champion,_ he argued. _What would happen to her?_

He could almost hear Nocturnal shrugging. _Nothing. She will still be my Agent of Strife — but you will be my Champion instead of her. My Champion_ has _existed outside of my Trinity before; it’s not entirely unheard of._

Ronan was silent.

_Even if she is not my Champion, the High Queen is still a valuable asset to me. She will not be harmed — not unless she displeases me._

_And what about me?_ he asked. _What if I refuse Your offer?_

_It would be... unwise._

Ronan swallowed.

_Have a little faith in me, Ronan. You have trusted your vampire long enough — why not me?_

_Because You do nothing but obscure my sight and tell me riddles,_ he shot back. _You don’t even tell me anything about my family or my father!_

 _Does my keeping you alive not merit a mention?_ Nocturnal’s voice was steely. _I would not bring you this far just to hand your soul to the Ideal Masters. If I wanted you dead, I would have found a way decades ago._

Ronan felt his jaw tightening. _Then give me one good reason why I should accept this offer._

 _Because the answers that you and your..._ friend _are seeking lie in the Soul Cairn._

He frowned. _What do You mean?_

 _What do you think I mean, Ronan? You wanted to find out answers about your family and here is your chance. Besides,_ Nocturnal purred, _would you not rather go to Riften with an idea of what — or who — you were looking for?_

His breath went out of him all at once. _Are You — are You lying to me?_ Ronan demanded. _Is it really all that simple?_

_Life is never simple, Ronan. But I do not lie to you._

Serana crouched down beside him. “Is Nocturnal speaking to you?”

Ronan nodded. “She — She said that the answers we’re seeking are in the Soul Cairn — about both of our families. But...”

“But what?” she pressed.

“But I have to swear to be Her Champion,” he said finally. “If I do that, She said She’d protect me from the Ideal Masters.”

Serana was silent, but finally, she spoke. “And what do you think about this?”

“I don’t know,” Ronan confessed. “You must — you must think that I’m terribly stupid for even _thinking_ about making a pact with a Daedric Prince. I know I do.” He tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse.

“Ronan, I know what it’s like to try and make the best of a bad situation,” she said quietly. “Personally, I don’t think trusting Nocturnal is the best choice, but then again... neither of your choices are great.” She placed her hand on his. “Just know that... whatever path you choose, I won’t think any less of you. Sometimes... things just have to be done.”

Ronan sighed. “I know,” he replied wearily. “I know.”

 _Then what will you choose, Ronan?_ Nocturnal’s voice was cool and calm. _You will belong to the night either way... but it is a matter of the path you walk in the dark._

Ronan swallowed. _I _—_ I will become Your Champion. _

Almost instantly, he felt a fleeting chill prickle his skin, as if a winter wind was sweeping over him. For an instant, his eyes felt sharper, his fingers nimbler, and his mind clearer and more focused — but even when the moment had passed, Ronan still felt he had changed, as though he was a stranger in his own body.

He bowed his head, unsure of whether to feel relief or despair. _Thank you, Nocturnal._

 _Use my gift wisely, Ronan._ There was an odd, unfamiliar note in her voice. _I would hate for you to go the same way as your father._

Ronan stood uncertainly, looking down towards the portal to the Soul Cairn. _So this is it, then,_ he thought. _I cannot turn back._

Serana stood with him. “I take it you made your choice.”

Ronan nodded. “I — I did.” _I’m so sorry. I can only imagine what you must think of me —_

She scrutinized him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then: “Let’s not waste any more time. My mother is in there somewhere.”

Serana stepped down, descending the silently floating stairway. After a moment, Ronan followed her down, his heart somehow feeling heavier than ever as he entered into the portal to the Soul Cairn, his vision blurring and going dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana navigate the Soul Cairn — and a tense conversation with Valerica.


	25. Soul of Darkness (Part III)

The first thing that Ronan noticed was the air — it almost felt _solid_ , sinking down into his lungs like a heavy stone. He tried to force his breath out, but it refused to rise; panicking, he attempted to exhale again, pain pricking his sides with the force.

Suddenly, his breath rushed out all at once, the weight in his chest relieved, and he gasped for air, nearly doubling over. Too late, he saw the crumbling, disjointed stairs floating in the air beneath him and realized he was falling —

Two cold hands caught his shoulders and righted him with surprising strength. Ronan reeled back, his heart pounding hard as fought the urge to look down. _That was too close..._

“Are you all right?” Serana asked from behind him; she sounded worried.

“I think so,” he managed. “I — I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

 _Only the Ideal Masters trying to claim your soul,_ Nocturnal said matter-of-factly. _It is not often that someone living passes through their domain; they seemed quite curious._

Ronan shuddered. _Please tell me you’re continuing to keep them at bay._

He could almost imagine Her eyebrow arching. _Those_ were _the terms of our arrangement, were they not..._ Champion _?_

Serana carefully let go of him, stepping out from behind him to scan ahead, her expression dismayed. “Look at the sky,” she murmured. “What kind of place is this?”

He raised his eyes to where she pointed — at the purple sky roiling ominously overhead — and then leveled his gaze. Stretching out before them was a bleak landscape, shrouded in murky mists. From above, Ronan could see the craggy black skeletons of trees and the tops of crumbling ruins that emerged from the mist; far beyond lay an immense black wall, crowned with broken turrets. And all along the ground, pale, indistinct shapes flitted in and out of view.

“I feel terrible for the dead who end up here for eternity,” Serana said quietly, “but I can’t imagine anyone besides the dead living here. This — this is an awful place.”

Ronan nodded. “I don’t even know the first place to start looking for your mother and the Scroll,” he confessed. “The Soul Cairn is... much larger than I expected.”

Serana didn’t respond.

“Serana?” Ronan glanced over at her. “What is it?” _Now that I willingly accepted the favor of a Daedric Prince, is she loathe to travel with me?_

Serana sighed. “It’s just — I was thinking about my mother. This whole venture... it’s starting to make me a little nervous, if you want to know the truth.”

“How so?”

“My mother was no coward, but that didn’t mean that she was foolhardy, especially where her experiments into necromancy were concerned.” Her golden eyes betrayed her worry. “I can’t imagine a better place to escape to, but she knew about the perils of the Soul Cairn. What if she just meant to hide the Elder Scroll here and return to Tamriel?”

Ronan frowned. “But wouldn’t she be in danger from your father then?”

“I don’t know whether she considered the Ideal Masters or my father the lesser of two evils, so to speak,” Serana responded. “But if all I’ve read about the Ideal Masters is true — if they somehow trapped my mother here — if they —” Her voice broke off and she glanced away briefly before continuing. “I just hope she’s all right. We need to find her; _I_ need to find her.”

“Agreed.” Ronan started down the steps, watching his footing very carefully. “When we find Valerica, though... what if she doesn’t have the Elder Scroll?”

“Then we find out where she hid it.” Serana followed him down. “My mother would probably have it with her. I can’t imagine her being separated from it – not willingly, at least.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ronan turned back and took Serana’s hand, giving it a small squeeze before helping her down. “We’ll find her, Serana. From what you’ve told me about your mother, she sounds clever enough to survive for... well, a long time.”

Serana smiled slightly, but it wasn’t enough to replace her apprehensive manner. “I just hope she didn’t prove too clever for her own good.”

Eager to get off the subject, Ronan pointed ahead, above the mists and towards the great black wall in the distance. “What do you think that is? A fortress of some kind?” he guessed. “Maybe that’s where the Ideal Masters live — for lack of a better word.”

Serana shook her head. “Somehow I doubt that the Ideal Masters are corporeal beings. In all my readings, no one’s ever said what they looked like. They could be flying above us, or underground... maybe they _are_ the ground; I have no idea.”

“I hope we don’t have the chance to find that out,” Ronan commented, laughing weakly.

A soft voice came from behind them. “If you continue to disturb their domain, you might.”

Both he and Serana whipped around, Serana summoning twin ice spikes over her palms and Ronan’s hands going to the hilts of his daggers.

A spirit, pale and translucent, stood behind them. Judging from the slight stature and the long, thick braid over one shoulder, it had been a woman once. Large, clear eyes gazed at them from a careworn face that still held some beauty, even in her state.

“Who are you?” Serana asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “What’s your name and what do you know about the Ideal Masters?”

“My name,” the spirit repeated quietly, her brow furrowing. “I — I knew it once. I knew who I was, what my life was, but now...” She sighed. “This godsforsaken place may have my soul, but my memories are deserting me, one by one.” She peered at Ronan, her eyes thoughtful. “But you... you are familiar to me somehow.”

Serana glanced over at him. “Do you know her?” she whispered, confused.

“Maybe,” Ronan said slowly. Strangely enough, the spirit seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her. _Where do I recognize her from?_

“It’s been a long time... Gervais.” The spirit smiled slightly.

Suddenly, he remembered that smile: the one so dazzling in the morning sun, aimed at two Riften guards by a woman in brown Guild leathers... a woman who saved him from prison. “You?” he exclaimed as the memory came rushing back. “I — I _do_ know you!”

“I thought you would.” The spirit’s smile turned a bit melancholy. “I’d hoped you would not forget me. I — I prayed that we would meet again, some day, but... not like this.”

“How did you end up here?” Ronan asked tentatively.

Her smile faded entirely. “My soul was trapped by the one who freed me,” she said simply. “I — I don’t think that he meant to do me harm, but...” She cast her gaze around the Soul Cairn. “This is not the afterlife I had wished for myself.” The spirit turned back to him. “But somehow, I don’t think this is _your_ afterlife. Unlike your companion, you are still living.”

“We’re searching for someone,” Serana said, desperation tingeing her voice. “My mother, Valerica, a vampire of the Volkihar bloodline. Have you seen her at all?”

“The one that the dragon guards? Yes, I know who she is.”

Serana and Ronan exchanged startled glances. “A dragon?” Ronan echoed.

“The Ideal Masters’ little pet. It calls itself Durnehviir, and it only seems to fly around the ruins that I’ve seen the vampire in.”

“So Mother _was_ trapped by the Ideal Masters,” Serana murmured fearfully. “The situation is worse than I thought. Please,” she begged, addressing the spirit, “can you show us where my mother is? We need to reach her.”

The spirit smiled. “I can take you there myself.”

Serana let out a pent-up breath, her tension briefly alleviated. “Thank you —” She paused. “What shall we call you by, if you can’t give us your name?”

The spirit thought for a moment. Then: “‘Nightingale’ will serve. After the bird of Nocturnal.” She flitted past them, stepping over the barren ground with a light step. “Follow me and please stay close. There are many perils to be avoided in this place.”

 

With every step he took, Ronan had been constantly fighting the urge to turn around and run back to the stairway to Valerica’s laboratory as fast as he could. But now that Nightingale had guided him and Serana past the immense black wall, now that they were this deep in the Soul Cairn, he feared that if he panicked now, he would be swallowed up by this malevolent realm for good.

 _Your fears are unfounded, Ronan,_ Nocturnal chided gently. _You are under my protection, remember? The Ideal Masters cannot harm you._

 _And what about Serana?_ he asked, his eyes focusing ahead. Serana was trailing closely behind Nightingale, looking about the Soul Cairn warily, her eyes watching for any signs of movement.

Nocturnal made an indelicate sound. _What about your vampire?_

_Is she protected from the Ideal Masters as well? If they went after her mother, then she’s in just as much danger._

Nocturnal sighed. _Still worrying about her safety? I would have thought you would be more concerned with — what is it that she calls herself? — “Nightingale.”_ She chuckled. _Do you not think it strange that the woman who set you on the path to becoming a thief should be here?_

A chill passed through Ronan. _What are You saying?_ he demanded.

 _That is for you to decide,_ She purred.

Nightingale’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “We’re here.”

Ronan stopped in his tracks, looking up at the building of black stone before him. Had it not been for its location in the Soul Cairn, he would have said that it looked almost like a cathedral, with its pointed roof and spires and the three stairways leading up to an elaborate doorway. But the twin bell towers were crumbling and broken off at the top, with strange beams of pale purple light shooting out towards the darkening, swirling sky, and the entrance was barricaded off by a curtain of the same kind of light.

 _A prison,_ Ronan realized grimly. _So Serana’s theory was correct..._

Somewhere in the shadows by the tall double doors, something moved.

Serana reacted first. “Mother?” She dashed up one of the sets of stairs, taking the steps two at a time, then stopping abruptly before she reached the barrier. “Mother, can you hear me?”

Leaving Nightingale at the foot of the stairs, Ronan followed her, ascending the stairs just in time to see a tall woman with proud bearing emerge from underneath the shadow of an archway. He was struck by how similar she looked to Serana — same coloring, same facial structure, even armor similar to her daughter’s — but Valerica’s hair was gathered on top of her head like a crown, and her golden eyes were cold and suspicious.

She caught sight of them and her eyes widened, the hostility draining from them. “It cannot be,” she murmured. “Serana? Is that you?”

“Mother!” For the first time since they’d entered the Soul Cairn, hope was on Serana’s face. “How do we get inside? We need to talk to you!”

“Serana, what are you doing here? Where is your father?” Valerica sounded almost fearful.

“He doesn’t know we’re here. I — I really don’t have time to explain —”

Her mother cut her off, her face grim. “I have failed, have I not? After all this time, Harkon has finally found a way to decipher the prophecy.”

“No — no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Serana pleaded. “We’re here to stop him — to make everything right.”

“‘We’?” Valerica asked archly. “Are you not alone?”

In silent response, Ronan tentatively stepped forward, into the light given off by the barrier.

Valerica’s eyes snapped to Ronan, narrowing at the sight of him, and then her cold gaze went back to Serana. “Serana, have you lost your mind?” she hissed. “Who is this man?”

“Ronan’s a friend, Mother,” Serana insisted. “He’s —”

“— a _mortal_ , one belonging to Nocturnal? And a _vampire hunter_ , no less,” Valerica spat. “Do _not_ tell me that you cannot smell the blood of our kin on him, that you cannot sense the darkness in him.”

“Mother, you don’t understand,” Serana pleaded. “Please, let me —”

“You!” Valerica turned her attention back to Ronan. “Come forward. I would speak with you.” Her tone held a threatening undercurrent.

Steeling himself, Ronan hesitantly moved a little bit closer to the barrier, trying not to look intimidated.

Valerica crossed her arms. “What is your name?”

“Ronan Sorleigh,” he answered, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded.

“ _Ronan Sorleigh,_ ” Valerica repeated, almost mockingly, “how has it come to pass that one such as you are in the company of my daughter? I will not lie: it pains me to think that you would travel with Serana under the guise of her... _protector_ in an effort to hunt more of us down.”

Ronan swallowed his anger. “This is no ruse,” he said. “I want to help Serana.”

“Coming from one who murders vampires as a trade, I find it hard to believe that your intentions are noble.” Her voice was bitterly sardonic. “I have sacrificed everything to keep Serana safe, to keep my fool of a husband from completing the prophecy. I would have expected her to explain that to you.”

“She has, and I understand,” Ronan insisted. “That’s why we’re here. We need an Elder Scroll — one of the ones that shows part of the prophecy.”

Valerica’s gaze hardened further. “You think I would have the audacity to place my own daughter in Dimhollow Crypt for the protection of her Elder Scroll alone? The scrolls are merely a means to an end. The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is Serana herself.”

Ronan frowned. “What — what do you mean?”

“Ah, so she did not tell you _that_ much,” Valerica mused, glancing at Serana before turning her attention back to him. “When I fled Castle Volkihar with Serana, I was in the possession of two Elder Scrolls. One scroll — the one that I presume you found with Serana herself — speaks of Auriel and his arcane weapon, Auriel’s Bow. The other declares that ‘the Blood of Coldharbour’s Daughter will Blind the Eye of the Dragon.’”

“And what does Serana have to do with this?” Ronan asked.

“My daughter and I were both human once, long ago, and devout worshippers of Lord Molag Bal — and tradition dictates that female worshippers be offered to Him on His summoning day.” Valerica’s face was impassive, and her words careful. “Few survive the ordeal, but those who do emerge as full-blooded vampires, blessed with a gift of blood by our Lord Himself. Such confluences are called ‘Daughters of Coldharbour.’”

Ronan’s breath caught in his throat as his mind fitted together the pieces: first from Serana’s retelling, and then from Valerica’s. “Are you saying that the Tyranny of the Sun requires Serana’s blood for it to be fulfilled?”

“And now you see why I wanted to protect my daughter, and why I wanted to keep the last of the Elder Scrolls as far away from her as possible,” Valerica said, her tone blunt.

And then the impact of it truly dawned on him. “Harkon means to — to _kill_ her?”

“If Harkon obtained Auriel’s Bow, and Serana’s blood was used to taint the arrows, one shot would render the Tyranny of the Sun complete. In his eyes, she would be dying for the good of all vampires.” Valerica’s lip curled in disgust.

Ronan glanced over at Serana, but her hair had fallen across her face, obscuring it from him. His heart ached at her plight. _To know that your own parents would use you —_ kill _you — to gain power or to bring about their own ends..._

“I won’t let that happen,” he insisted, turning back to Valerica. “I’ll stop Harkon somehow.”

Serana raised her head, looking over with an emotion in her eyes that he could not place.

Valerica merely arched an eyebrow. “And _how_ exactly do you plan to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Ronan confessed, “but we’ll need your help. If you can show us where the Elder Scroll is —”

“Have you not been listening to me?” Valerica interrupted, irritated. “I am also a Daughter of Coldharbour, and my presence on Tamriel is as much a danger as Serana’s is. I cannot return.”

“Not even to save your own daughter?” Ronan asked quietly.

“Do not dare to presume that _I_ do not care for Serana!” Valerica snarled suddenly. “ _You_ , on the other hand, care nothing for Serana or our plight. You are only here because we’re abominations in your mind, evils to be destroyed for the good of humankind and the favor of Nocturnal.”

“That’s not true!” Ronan shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. “ _Yes,_ I have hunted and killed vampires. _Yes,_ I’m Nocturnal’s Champion. But those alone do not define me.” He took a deep breath, forcing his voice level. “I don’t want the world to be plunged into night, and I’m helping Serana to make sure that Harkon doesn’t do just that. Is that really so hard for you to believe?”

Valerica did not look convinced as she turned towards Serana and addressed her in a voice that could have frozen fire. “Serana, this — this _mortal_ aligns himself with our enemies, both those on Nirn who would hunt you down and slay you like an animal and those in Oblivion with the power to challenge Molag Bal. Give me one good reason why I should trust him.”

“This ‘mortal,’ as you say, has done more for me in the brief time I’ve known him than you’ve done for me in centuries.” Serana’s voice was not raised, but there was no mistaking the rage in it; it surprised Ronan greatly.

Apparently, it had the same effect on her mother. “How dare you!” she hissed. “I gave up everything that I cared about — _everything!_ — to protect you from that fanatic you call ‘father’!”

“I know, Mother!” Serana cried out. “I know Harkon’s changed. But — but he’s still my father. You’re both still my parents.” Her face was anguished. “To be left in the dark by both of you, only to see the light when it’s too late for me to do anything but agree... why can’t you understand how that makes me feel?”

Valerica was shaking her head. “Oh, Serana. If only you would open your eyes. The moment that Harkon discovers your role in the prophecy — that he realizes that he needs your blood — you would be in terrible danger.”

“And so you decided to shut me away and hope he’d never find me?” Serana finished bitterly. “I have news for you, Mother: it didn’t work. Harkon’s court was on the verge of finding me, and — and I think that’s because he already suspected my role in the prophecy.” Her voice broke. “If Ronan hadn’t gotten to me first, there’s no telling what might have happened.”

Valerica’s eyes flashed to Ronan briefly in surprise. “Serana, I —”

“You never asked me my opinion on any of this, about whether or not hiding in Dimhollow was the best course of action,” Serana continued angrily, cutting her off. “You might have explained your plan to me, but you didn’t expect me to question you: just to nod my head and go along.

“Both of you — you _and_ Harkon — you’re obsessed with your own paths. Your motivations might have been different, but in the end, I’m still just a pawn to you, too.” She swallowed, and Ronan thought he saw tears coming to her eyes. “I want us to be a family again, but... I don’t know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don’t deserve that kind of happiness.

“But I do know this: we have to stop my father before he goes too far.” She looked her mother directly in the eye. “And to do that, we need the Elder Scroll.”

Valerica dropped her gaze. “Serana — my daughter —” she whispered. “I am so sorry. I — I didn’t know — I didn’t see that — that I’ve allowed my hatred of Harkon to estrange us for too long. Please,” she begged, stepping up to the barrier, “forgive me.”

“I do,” Serana said softly, the tears running down her face now. “Oh, Mother, I do.” She reached out, her fingertips barely touching the curtain of light.

A ghost of a smile on her face, Valerica brought up her hand as well in the same gesture. “If you want the Elder Scroll, it is yours. But it is not quite as simple as that.” Her smile faded as she addressed Ronan. “ _Your_ intentions are still somewhat unclear to me. But for Serana’s sake, I will assist you in any way that I can.”

“Thank you,” Ronan said honestly. “Do you know where the Elder Scroll is? Do you have it with you here in the Soul Cairn?”

Something in Valerica’s face softened a little at hearing his thanks. “Yes. I have kept it secured here since my imprisonment.”

“By the Ideal Masters?” Serana asked.

“Truth be told, the fault is mostly mine. But yes: this was their doing,” Valerica sighed. “When I entered the Soul Cairn, I intended to try and strike a bargain with the Ideal Masters. I requested refuge here, and in return, I would provide them with the souls that they craved.” She shook her head. “But if I had foreseen the value that the Masters placed on my own soul, I would never have tried for such an accord. The Ideal Masters unleashed their Keepers to destroy me and claim my soul for their own.

“Fortunately, I was able to hold them at bay and take refuge in these ruins, where the Keepers could not reach me. So they had their minions construct this barrier you see before you, one I would never be able to breach. But you two happen to be in a position to bring it down.”

“How?” Serana asked.

“There are several rocky spires that surround these ruins. At their bases, the barrier’s energy is being drawn from the life force of the unfortunate souls who have been exiled here. If you destroy the Keepers who are guarding them, it should be enough to bring the barrier down.”

Serana nodded. “Don’t worry, Mother. We’ll get you out.”

“A word of caution,” Valerica warned. “There is a dragon that calls itself Durnehviir roaming the Cairn. The Ideal Masters have charged him with overseeing the Keepers, and he will undoubtedly interfere if he considers you a threat.”

“We’ve been warned about him,” Ronan said, “and we’ll definitely be careful.” _I have no desire to fight a dragon. That’s Kajsa’s business, not mine._

“By who?” Valerica asked, frowning.

“A spirit who guided us here,” Serana supplied. “She doesn’t remember much of how she was in life, but she calls herself ‘Nightingale.’”

Valerica nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I know of her. We have met before; she sometimes keeps me company here.” She sighed. “Poor woman. I do not envy her fate.”

“Don’t pity me while I’m standing here, Lady Valerica,” Nightingale said lightly, stepping up beside Serana and Ronan. “And you likely will not meet a fate like mine.”

Valerica smiled wryly. “True. Thank you for guiding my daughter here.”

“Do you know where these spires are?” Serana asked the spirit. “The ones that the Keepers guard?”

Nightingale nodded gravely. “I do, but I dare not go near them. The Keepers will catch any soul found wandering near there and use what’s left of them to give life to this barrier.” Turning, she pointed out over the Soul Cairn in three different directions. “The spires are not far from here. If you hurry, you may avoid reinforcements.”

“Thank you for your aid. We’ll set out right away.” Ronan made to leave.

“Sorleigh?” Valerica’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Be careful... and keep my daughter safe.” The concern in her voice was evident. “She is everything I have left. If I lose her —”

“You won’t,” Ronan promised. “I’ll keep her safe.”

Valerica’s gaze softened, but there was still some wariness in it. “I almost believe you,” she murmured, turning away. “Now, go. And do not make me regret placing my daughter in your hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana's efforts to free Valerica do not go unnoticed.


	26. Durnehviir

“How are you feeling after talking to your mother?” Ronan ventured.

“Relieved... I think.” Serana’s forehead furrowed slightly. “Everything that I said had been building up within me for a while. I had wanted to say that to her for so long, but now that I’ve said it... I don’t feel any relief or satisfaction or _anything_. Just...” She shrugged, the gesture saying more than words. “I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like that helped at all.”

Ronan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Back then, I — I loved both of my parents. Very much, in fact.” Serana’s face fell. “But when my father found the prophecy... that became his life. Everything else — even my mother and myself — became clutter to him. Expendable, you could say.”

Ronan swallowed, remembering Valerica’s warning about Serana’s role in the prophecy. _What kind of madman would sacrifice his own daughter to achieve his own ends? Even my own father —_ He swallowed. _I shouldn’t be making comparisons. Both are equally vile._

“I was still close with my mother, and she just kept feeding me her opinions of him, and eventually... I suppose I started believing them.” Serana sighed heavily. “And soon enough, I was agreeing with everything she said or did or wanted me to do — as long as it hurt my father.”

“There seems to be no love lost between them,” Ronan observed cautiously.

“It wasn’t always like that.” Serana took a steadying breath. “Once we gave ourselves to Molag Bal, things got very icy between them. They were both drunk with power and ambition and pulling in different directions — and then my father found the prophecy and... that was it for their marriage.”

“And you were caught in the middle,” Ronan finished.

Serana nodded. “I was, but... it took me a long time to realize that my mother was just as bad as my father. He was obsessed with fulfilling the prophecy, and she was obsessed with seeing him fail. It was so... _toxic._ ” Her eyes showed her pain. “I should have seen what everything was coming to. Maybe we’d all be better off now if I’d just done something —”

“It’s not your fault,” Ronan interrupted gently. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“I know that,” Serana said quietly, “but there’s no way to tell yourself to stop regretting the way things are.”

Suddenly feeling the urge to avoid her eyes, Ronan looked up to see the church-like prison of black stone looming before them. Even in the dim light of the Soul Cairn, he noticed one striking difference about it: the curtain of pale purple light that had closed off the entrance had vanished.

“We did it,” Serana breathed, following his gaze. “The barrier’s gone!” She ran towards the stairs, clambering up them hastily; feeling some measure of triumph, Ronan followed her.

Valerica and Nightingale were conversing in low voices, but they ceased and turned towards the new arrivals as Ronan and Serana approached. As he drew near, Ronan realized with some discomfort that the elder vampire was at least a head taller than him, and far more imposing up-close.

“I see you two managed to destroy all three Keepers,” Valerica observed, a hint of surprise in her voice. “That is... impressive, to say the least.”

“It’s easier if you stay at a distance,” Ronan said wryly, remembering the towering, unearthly warriors with their deadly weapons — _good for close combat, but no match against crossbow bolts and ice spikes_ , he thought.

Nocturnal chuckled. _No match for a Daedric Champion, you mean._

Ronan sighed. _Why must You always ascribe my successes to Your influence?_

 _Because it is the truth,_ Nocturnal answered simply. _Have you forgotten that it is I who influences the luck of thieves such as yourself?_

“Are our efforts enough for us to reach the Elder Scroll?” Serana asked.

“Yes.” Valerica turned around and started towards the doors. “Please follow me, and keep watch for Durnehviir. With the prison’s barrier down, he is almost certain to investigate.” Reaching the tall double doors, she pulled one of them open and passed over the threshold.

“Go on,” Nightingale encouraged. “I will wait here to guide you back.”

Nodding, Ronan followed Valerica’s path to and through the doors, descending into a narrow path formed by two arcing stone walls. He then emerged into a massive courtyard, ringed by walls of the same black stone and crowned with crumbling towers, with that same eerie purple sky.

“Where’s the Scroll?” Ronan asked. “Is there more to the prison?”

Valerica opened her mouth to answer, but Serana, just behind Ronan, spoke first. “Did either of you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a giant shadow passed over the courtyard and a guttural roar echoed off the stones. Ronan’s eyes darted up just in time to see the underside of an immense winged beast as it swooped overhead — _a dragon,_ he realized with dread.

“Durnehviir.” Valerica’s face was grim as her hands came up with the hissing and crackling of ice spikes forming over her palms.

“Mother, what are you doing?” Serana asked fearfully.

“I will hold him off for as long as I can,” Valerica explained tersely. “You two need to get the Elder Scroll and leave, before the Ideal Masters send reinforcements.”

“What? No!” Serana’s eyes went wide. “I won’t leave you!”

“This is no time to be noble, Serana,” Valerica snapped. “ _Go._ I will not say it twice —”

Suddenly, the ground shook as Durnehviir landed on top of the courtyard wall, claws digging into the stone with frightening ease. Opening his maw, he roared again — Ronan couldn’t be sure of it, but he could have sworn that the dragon had _said_ something — issuing forth a ring of purple energy into the rubble littering the courtyard. The stones split open, and the bones that tumbled out of the crypts beneath them began to reassemble themselves, picking up the weapons they had been buried with and shambling towards the three of them.

Valerica let loose her ice spikes, easily embedding them in the rib cages of two; Serana followed with a volley of her own that felled two more of the strange skeletons. Hefting his crossbow from off his back, Ronan took aim and started firing into the mob slowly nearing them.

“Aim for Durnehviir!” Valerica yelled back at him. “He will do it again —”

Her words were drowned out by another roar, and yet another wave of skeletons rose from the ground behind them at the dragon’s command. Spinning around, Serana summoned a ball of swirling snow in both hands and directed it at the latest horde, freezing them solid.

Clambering on top of some fallen stones, Ronan peered at the dragon, trying to find a potentially vulnerable point. For the first time, he noticed that Durnehviir’s hide was flaking and worn through in places, displaying decaying muscle and cracked bone, and his powerful wings were all but in tatters. _Perhaps he’s already near the end of his strength._

“Ronan, shoot!” Serana’s voice rose above the clamor. “I’m not sure how much longer we can keep this up!”

Taking hasty aim towards an unarmored spot on the dragon’s neck, Ronan briefly closed his eyes. _Please don’t let me miss._ Opening his eyes again, his finger squeezed the crossbow’s trigger.

The bolt buried into what was left of Durnehviir’s flesh, and the dragon threw its head back, roaring his pain. Suddenly, he lifted himself up from the courtyard wall, wings beating in the still, heavy air. Reloading as fast as he could, Ronan fired another bolt, this time at the right wing near the joint.

Now angered even more, Durnehviir dove into the courtyard, landing directly in the center with another ground-shaking tremor and scattering some of the skeletons with lashes of his tail. Upon seeing the enemy so close, Valerica and Serana began to turn their magic towards the dragon, throwing ice spikes and bolts of chain lightning in tandem.

Ronan took aim again, searching for another vulnerable point. Then, as Durnehviir whipped his massive head around, he saw it: one nearly-blind eye.

 _Nocturnal, guide my hand._ Forcing out a pent-up breath, he fired.

The bolt ripped through the dragon’s eye and drove deep into the skull. His whole body stiffening, Durnehviir roared, rearing up in the throes of death before collapsing fully onto the courtyard stones along with the bones of all the skeletons he’d raised. Almost as soon as he fell, tendrils of eerie green light seeped out from underneath his scales and shot up into the sky, leaving the body grey, cold, and still before it abruptly vanished, dissipating into the air.

Slowly, the two vampires lowered their hands, the destruction magic fizzling out, both staring in disbelief at where the body of the felled dragon had been. Sheathing his crossbow on his back, Ronan clambered down from his position on the rubble and joined them. _I can’t believe we brought down a dragon..._

 _Yes, “we.”_ Nocturnal sounded very smug. _I think I deserve some thanks for “guiding your hand,” do you not?_

Valerica spoke first. “Forgive my astonishment, but... I thought I would never witness the death of that dragon.”

Ronan frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Volumes written on Durnehviir allege that he cannot be slain by normal means. From what I read of him prior to my sojourn into the Soul Cairn, he gained some notoriety as being virtually immortal. It appears that my sources may have been mistaken.” Her brow furrowed. “Unless...”

“Unless what?” he pressed.

“The soul of a dragon is as resilient as its owner’s scaly hide. It is... entirely possible that your killing blow has merely displaced Durnehviir’s form until it can reconstitute itself.” Valerica sighed, slightly irritated. “In that case, that damned dragon is not yet dead.”

Ronan swallowed. “How long will that take?”

“Minutes? Hours? Years? I cannot even begin to guess. In any case, I do not suggest that we wait long enough to find out firsthand.” Valerica started walking again, giving where Durnehviir had fallen a wide berth. “Now, let’s get you the Elder Scroll so that Nightingale can get you back.”

 

“I’m glad we found the Scroll, but... I wish she could have come with us,” Serana said quietly, glancing back over her shoulder at the fast-fading form of Valerica in the distance. “I know it’s not safe for her on Tamriel, but I don’t want to leave her _here_ either.”

Ronan nodded, tucking the Scroll under one arm; even with the jeweled case, it was a little lighter than he’d expected. “Maybe after this is all done, we can return for her.”

“After we deal with my father, you mean.” Her voice was not condemning, but rather resigned. 

Ronan glanced over at her. “Does it bother you that we’re working against your father?”

“I can’t say it surprises me,” Serana said simply. “I figured that we were heading towards this one day, but I just didn’t know when.”

“Will it be hard for you if — if we have to kill him?”

“‘If’? I’ve been assuming that that’s where everything’s going.” Serana’s wry tone turned into something less harsh. “I — I’ve been trying to make my peace with it, but when the time comes... I don’t know if I can deal with it. No matter what he plans to do, he’s still my father, and it won’t be easy for me.”

Ronan swallowed. “I understand.” _I do. I truly do._

“Let’s just get out of the Soul Cairn,” Serana said after a long pause. “Then we can head to Riften and I can fulfill my end of the bargain.” She gave him a small, but strained smile. 

 _In the midst of everything else... I’d nearly forgotten about my own family troubles._ “Kajsa told me that Mercer had a house in Riften. Riftweald Manor.” His hand went to one of the pouches on his belt, checking to make sure that he could still feel the lump through the leather. “She gave me the key, so... that would be the first place I’d look.”

“Then we’ll go there,” Serana said decisively. “It’s on the way back to Fort Dawnguard; we should be able to stop there fairly quickly.” She laughed to herself. “Maybe Finverior will be back by the time we get there.”

Ronan laughed as well. “I doubt it.”

They’d reached the entrance of Valerica’s prison, the barren landscape of the Soul Cairn stretching out before them. Ronan looked around him, peering into the shadows formed by the columns on either side of them, but he saw no sign of the spirit who called herself Nightingale. _How will we find our way out?_

Suddenly, one of the crumbling wall sections beyond the stairs seemed to catch fire with a wave of purple light. Roiling, it expanded, outlining a massive, hulking, dark form before winking out, allowing them both to see what was on top of the wall. 

It was Durnehviir. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana's suspicions about Harkon's plot are confirmed.


	27. The Death Never Dying

“Stay your weapons.” Durnehviir’s voice was raspy with age, but it still rumbled with power. “I would speak with you, _Qahnaarin._ ”

Dumbfounded, Ronan dropped his hand from where it had been hovering over his shoulder, ready to seize his crossbow; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Serana close her hands, dispelling the ice spikes that had been there. _Dragons… can_ speak?

 _Perhaps you should spend a little more time speaking with Kajsa,_ Nocturnal suggested archly. 

Ronan ignored Her. “I — we thought you were dead,” he managed. _I suppose Valerica was right... but that seemed like a very short time to regenerate._

“Cursed, not dead. Doomed to exist in this form for eternity. Trapped between _laas ahrk dinok_ , life and death.” Durnehviir’s tail lashed restlessly as he spoke. “But no matter. I believe in civility among seasoned warriors, and I find your ear worthy of my words. My claws have rent the flesh of innumerable foes, but never before have I been felled on the field of battle.” The dragon inclined its neck in a sort of bow. “I therefore honor-name you _Qahnaarin_ , or ‘Vanquisher’ in your tongue.”

Struck speechless for a moment, Ronan bowed his head slightly. “I found you equally worthy,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

Durnehviir seemed pleased by his politeness. “Your words do me great honor.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Ronan ventured, “why did you wish to speak to me?”

“I merely wish to respectfully ask a favor of you, _Qahnaarin_.” Durnehviir brought up his head out of the bow. “For countless centuries, I’ve roamed the Soul Cairn in unintended service to the Ideal Masters. But before that, I soared through the skies above Tamriel — and I desire to return there.”

“I don’t quite understand what you’re asking,” Ronan said cautiously. “If you’re not dead, can you not return there on your own?”

“I fear that my time here has taken its toll on me. I share a bond with this dreaded place. If I were to venture far from the Soul Cairn, my strength would wane until it was no more.” Durnehviir’s clouded eyes had a sorrowful look to them. “But... were I to place my name with a mortal and give them the right to call my name from Tamriel... perhaps I would be able to return, if only for a short time.”

Ronan frowned. “Just… call your name?”

“Trivial in your mind, perhaps. But for me, it would mean a great deal,” Durnehviir said. “Do me this honor, and I will fight at your side as your _grah-zeymahzin_ , ally. That, _Qahnaarin_ , is what I ask of you.”

Ronan swallowed. “I’d like to. I really would,” he answered honestly. “But I can’t learn your language. It’s hard for humans to.”

“Difficult, but not _vokorasaal_ , impossible,” Durnehviir corrected. “The Tongues of old, who felled so many of my brothers, succeeded in their mastery of _Dovahzul_.” He snorted, but not with rancor. “Truly, it is an irony, that _joorre_ and their theft of our _thu’um_ should hold the key to my release.”

An idea sprang into his mind. “Durnehviir,” Ronan began, “I might not be able to help you — not directly, anyway — but I know someone who could. I suppose that you _could_ say that she’s a ‘Tongue,’ as you call it...”

“A _joor_ who can speak Dovahzul?” Durnehviir now seemed intrigued. “Are there still Tongues in this age, or is who you speak of the only one with this talent?” 

Serana’s brow furrowed. “How are you going to convince the High Queen to enter the Soul Cairn? I’m not even sure it’ll be left open for the time it takes us to —”

Durnehviir answered in place of Ronan. “If you even were to only try, _Qahnaarin_ , that would be enough.” Despite his lack of distinctly human features, Ronan thought that Durnehviir almost looked melancholy, but hopeful. “I do not expect complete freedom, but rather hope for a brief moment in the sun and the sky.”

“I will try,” Ronan said, his voice full of conviction. _I can’t imagine what it would be like to be trapped here, let alone for centuries... if Kajsa or I could help him..._

“My thanks.” Durnehviir inclined his head again. “Perhaps the Ideal Masters will release me from my bargain after all, now that the vampire Valerica is certain to depart soon... but I am not fool enough to hold them at their word.”

“You made a bargain with the Ideal Masters as well?” Serana asked. 

Durnehviir let out breath in what resembled a heavy sigh. “Long ago, when _Taazokaan_ , Tamriel, was still my home, the _dovah_ roamed the skies, vying for their territory and battling all others of their kind to the death to keep it. But alliances had to be made when the humans who once worshipped us as gods rose up against us — unstable alliances, but effective for a time.”

A chill went down Ronan’s spine as he was reminded of the Dragon Cult and Valmir’s interest in it. _So there really was a war between dragons and men ages ago..._ “And you were involved in this?”

“ _Geh._ But unlike some of my brethren, I sought solutions outside the norm in order to win: _alok-dilon_ , that ancient, forbidden art that you call necromancy. I learned of the Soul Cairn, and I went to the Ideal Masters for answers.” Durnehviir bared his teeth in disdain. “They assured me that my powers would be unmatched, that I could raise legions of the undead. In return, I would serve them as a Keeper until the death of the vampire Valerica.”

“They tricked you,” Serana said quietly, “just as they did my mother.”

“I discovered much too late that the Ideal Masters favor deception over honor, and that they had no intention of releasing me from my binding. But though they had control over my mind, they could not possess my soul.” He made a short, hacking sound deep in his throat that Ronan interpreted as bitter laughter. “And that is the reason that I am here before you now and staying my _thu’um_ — unlike our first encounter.”

“We’re both grateful for that,” Ronan said. 

Durnehviir laughed again, but with more levity. “Indeed. Though I have no hope of returning to Tamriel on my own, I can only hope that I will be allowed some precious moments of time there through your comrade’s call.” With a sudden snap, he stretched his tattered wings out to their full span. “Until we meet again, _Qahnaarin. Lok, thu’um_.” 

With that, Durnehviir took off from the crumbling remnants of the wall, soaring higher and higher into the void of the sky. Ronan and Serana both watched him leave, eyes upwards until the faint sounds of his wingbeats finally faded. 

The voice of Nightingale came from behind them as she stepped out from the shadows that had hid her. “I didn’t think that the dragon could actually be defeated, let alone befriended.” Stepping before them, she faced Ronan. “Are you ready to leave?”

“I think so,” he answered, glancing at Serana. “We’ve found what we were looking for.”

“Good.” She gazed at him for a few seconds, lips pursed in thought: a gesture that seemed oddly familiar. “If you don’t mind my asking... what happened to you after our meeting in the Riften market? I — I wanted to see you again, but...” She trailed off, giving him a sad smile. “Well, I ended up here.”

Ronan swallowed. “I was adopted within the month.”

Nightingale frowned slightly. “By who? Someone in the Guild?”

“Yes, but not the one in Skyrim. High Rock. My foster father, Eamon Sorleigh, was a fence for them,” he explained. “Did you know him?”

“I don’t think so, but... that would explain how you ended up as a thief regardless.” Her smile became warmer, but her dark eyes were still thoughtful. “Have you ever gone back to Riften? I imagine not, but —”

“I have,” Ronan said quietly. _It was an interesting homecoming, to say the least._

“And — do you plan to return there?”

“Yes, actually,” he responded. “Why do you ask?”

Nightingale did not answer for a few moments. Then: “I’ve always wondered about what happened to my family after I — after I passed.” Her hands wound around each other. “I don’t know if they know the true circumstances of my death or not, but... could you try to find them? I know it’s a lot to ask and I know they’ve probably moved on,” she added quickly, “but I just want to know if they’re all right.”

“I could try,” Ronan said. “Do you remember their names?”

Nightingale shook her head regretfully, her face twisted in pain. “Perhaps — perhaps you could ask the Guild. There _must_ be some who knew me when I was alive that remain with the Guild still.” She frowned in concentration. “There was a young man with hair as brilliant as mine once was — quite the gentleman —”

His eyes widened. “You mean Brynjolf?”

“Yes... that is his name, isn’t it?” she mused, sighing in relief. “Thank Nocturnal I remembered _something._ Do you know him?”

Ronan nodded. 

Nightingale smiled. “I’m glad he’s still around. He was such a kind young man.” She gently touched his cheek. “I — I can’t tell you how grateful I am, that you’re doing this for me.”

He returned her smile. “You guided us safely through the Soul Cairn. It’s the least I can do.” Ronan looked over at Serana again. “Ready to leave?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Serana said wryly. 

“Wait!”

Three pairs of eyes turned towards the spirit racing up the steps to the prison. Squinting at the newcomer, Ronan realized with a start that the tattered robes hanging off her frame and the long, lank blonde hair were familiar to him. _Is that truly —?_

“It’s the Vigilant,” Serana said with no small amount of surprise. “The one who was captured trying to infiltrate the castle.”

“And you’re one of the vampires inside the gods-damned castle,” Fenella said tartly, coming to a stop in front of them. “I should have guessed that you had allied yourself with _them_ , Sorleigh,” she accused, turning to Ronan. “Is this a new Dawnguard tactic or are you just a turncoat?”

“How did you find us?” Ronan asked, still shocked by her appearance.

“The Soul Cairn doesn’t often get visitors who are still alive, from what I can tell.” The rancor on her face was slowly fading, replaced by worry. “But that doesn’t really matter, and this alliance doesn’t concern me. You’re still living, I’m dead, and I’m here to warn you about the one who killed me.”

His stomach turning over, Ronan noticed that Fenella’s torso was covered with dark blood from gouges in her flesh. “What happened to you?” he asked, aghast. 

“Like the vampire over there said already, I was captured. Tortured. And ultimately, sacrificed.” Fenella sighed, the sound heavy and full of melancholy. “The Soul Cairn is a dismal place, but... it’s better than an eternity in Coldharbour, I suppose.”

“Coldharbour? But —” Serana stopped abruptly, eyes widening with realization. “The darkness that I sensed in you... it _was_ Molag Bal?” she breathed. “How?”

Fenella nodded stiffly. “It doesn’t matter how.” Her voice was ragged and strained. “What matters is that the bastard’s not in my head anymore because of that Disciple of his that killed me.”

“The vampire mage?” Serana asked. “The illusion master?”

“The same,” Fenella confirmed. “He is no ordinary vampire, if there is such a thing. He is dangerous — not only for his ties to the Daedra, but his magic... it’s powerful, like nothing I’ve ever witnessed before.” Her face was grim. “He’s up to _something_ , and whatever it is, he needed the piece of Molag Bal inside my soul and the Mace of Molag Bal to accomplish it.”

Serana was starting to look just as worried as Fenella. “If Molag Bal is involving himself in events... that can mean nothing but trouble,” she murmured. “And if my father truly has this Disciple of His on his side...”

“Then he might have a chance to complete the Tyranny of the Sun,” Ronan finished, dread mounting. _A world without a sun... recreated for the creatures of Molag Bal..._

“I don’t know about this ‘Tyranny of the Sun,’ but this Disciple needs to be stopped before he carries out his schemes.” Murder was in Fenella’s eyes. “And if I can’t blacken the eye of Molag Bal myself, it might as well be you.”

 

“Your absence from dinner is... _conspicuous_ , to say the least.” Harkon lounged in a velvet-upholstered chair, hands spread. “Am I, your willing host, not doing enough to accommodate you?” He smiled, a seemingly genial gesture.

In the chair opposite him, the Disciple shrugged languidly, his gaze vaguely fixed on the dying embers in the fireplace before him. “My disinterest in your court has no reflection on your abilities as a host — merely on your court itself.”

Harkon sighed ruefully. “They may have been reborn from my blood, but that does not make them as pure as myself. Some do not even deserve the name of ‘vampire.’”

Beneath the hood, the Disciple’s lip curled in disdain.  “Agreed. There is no bloodline nobler and greater than that of our Lord Himself — not even that of Clan Aundae, the blood that runs in my veins and gives me my power.”

“Truly? You are far from Vvardenfell, then.” Harkon almost looked impressed, but he hid it well. “Tell me: why do you — undoubtedly purer and more skilled than almost all around me — grace my court, here in the far reaches of the frozen North?”

“Duty, my Lord Harkon,” the Disciple answered simply, “both to my comrades here on Tamriel and to my Lord in Oblivion.” His voice was low, but forceful. “I have been given a mission from Molag Bal itself, and that is to help you bring about the Tyranny of the Sun.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Aundae, but the indistinctness of your words is... tantalizing.” Harkon leaned back in his chair. “Will you not tell to me your story? Those who have lived for as long as you or I have many of them, and some are more intriguing than others.”

Silence descended over the room, the request hanging in the air.

Then: “I am indeed of Clan Aundae, but my path led me far from Vvardenfell early in my second life.” The Disciple leaned his head on one hand, propped up by an elbow planted on the arm of the chair, his hood falling a little further over his face. “I honed my talents — in magic, in persuasion, in blood — in service to a cause greater than myself. It was my... _passion_ , I suppose you’d say.” He paused for a moment. “But then there came a woman.”

Harkon’s eyes darkened. “Is there not always,” he stated quietly, menacingly. “And what manner of woman was she?”

“Dangerous — cunning — yet oh, _so_ vulnerable. And utterly desirable for it.” The Disciple’s voice became soft, barely more than a sound behind breath, as if he spoke to a lover. “Oh, the games that we played... ah, so satisfying. Every time she thought she had the upper hand —” he shook his head, a slight smile forming on his lips “— I would show her just how wrong she was.” The smile faded, replaced by the same disdainful curl of his lip. “Until I went to my death because of her.”

“A tragic tale,” Harkon said, a thread of sarcasm running through his words. “But how is it that you are before me, recounting this story to me in this moment?”

“Because I am favored and beloved of Molag Bal.” The Disciple lifted his chin, a nearly imperceptible show of pride. “It was He who brought me back after she slew me and left me for dead. And it was He who gave me my purpose: to bind the futures of my brethren in Alinor with my kind and _you_ , Lord Harkon. When the sun goes dark — the world will belong to us.”

Harkon smiled coldly. “Indeed.” He idly waved his fingers, as if dismissing someone. “And when my rule and that of your Dominion is established... what then? Revenge on this ‘dangerous’ woman of yours? She lives still, I presume.”

“Oh, she does.” The smile returned to the Disciple’s thin lips, displaying his fangs. “And I _do_ look forward to toying with the Unfaithful again: now that she has everything to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana return to Riften on a personal mission.


	28. Family History (Part I)

The key to Riftweald Manor rested in the palm of his hand: cold, hard, and leaden, feeling much heavier than it actually was. Ronan turned it over, taking in the simple, circular loop of the bow, the uniform bit, the dull bronze color — all seemingly ordinary, nothing particularly ornate. _But far from ordinary to my eyes._

Serana’s pale fingers plucked the key up and she examined it for herself. “This is the key that the High Queen gave you? The one to your father’ old house?”

Nodding, Ronan reached over and reclaimed it from her, tucking it into one of the pouches on his bandolier; he still keenly felt its weight and chill against his chest, even through the thick leather.

Her golden eyes turned to scrutinize him. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You’ve been unusually quiet this whole journey.”

Ronan sighed. “No, not really. I mean,” he corrected himself hastily, “it’s just that there’s — there’s been a lot on my mind.” _The Tyranny of the Sun... Durnehviir’s request... “Nightingale”... and of course, my family’s past..._

“I can imagine.” Serana wrapped her cloak a little more securely around herself to guard against the hesitant drizzling of rain. “After our last experience in Riften, does coming back here bother you at all?”

“It does, but... only a little.” Ronan glanced around him at the narrow alleyways branching off of Riften’s main road, half-expecting to see the entirety of the Thieves Guild skulking in the darkness, waiting to pounce. _All right, it bothers me more than I care to say._

Serana raised an eyebrow at his backwards glance. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.” She gave him a small, encouraging smile. “What do you want to do first: enter your father’s house or find this ‘Brynjolf’?”

Ronan sighed. “I’d rather find Brynjolf and just get it over with.”

Serana frowned slightly. “Get _what_ over with?”

“Brynjolf will probably be in the Ragged Flagon,” Ronan said wearily, “which is where the Thieves Guild makes their base. If I were looking for a confrontation with the Guild, that would be the first place I would go.”

“Well, the carriage that took us here from Solitude arrived here at a late hour,” Serana pointed out. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky and most of the thieves will be out... thieving.”

Ronan nodded again, but he felt his heart sinking. _Somehow, I wouldn’t count on it._

Nocturnal laughed. _You underestimate your luck, my Champion. You may just find what you seek._

 

The sound of someone knocking incessantly on the door roused Kajsa from her sleep. Cracking her eyes open and lifting her head up from the pillow slightly, she scowled in the direction of the door, willing whoever was foolish enough to disturb her at this hour to go away.

Much to her irritation, the knocking continued.

Beside her, Ulfric stirred. “What is that gods-damned noise?” he growled, sitting up groggily.

As if on cue, a muffled voice sounded through the door. “High King! High Queen! C’mon, open up! I know you’re both in there and I know that at least one of you can hear me!”

Recognizing the voice, the two of them glanced over at each other in chagrin. “Finverior,” they spat in unison.

Untangling herself from her husband’s arms and sliding out of bed, Kajsa seized the dressing gown that had been tossed over a nearby chair and wrapped it around herself. “One of these days, I will seriously consider killing him,” she muttered under her breath, stalking to the door.

“‘Consider’?” Ulfric questioned darkly.

Kajsa yanked open the door, glaring at Finverior, who stood just over the threshold. He peered into the room past her, looking back and forth from the High King to her. “Did I interrupt something?” he asked innocently.

“This better be important,” Kajsa snapped, her dark eyes flinty.

The cheeky grin on Finverior’s face faded. “It is, actually,” he stated, slipping past her and into the room. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have woken you and your dear husband —” he wiggled his fingers at Ulfric in a sort of half-wave “— if it wasn’t.”

“Then explain.” Kajsa crossed her arms and waited.

Heaving a tired sigh, Finverior flopped into a chair. “Did you already know I was on a mission for the Dawnguard? Y’know, going to this ruin called Ruunvald to see if I could recruit some Priest of Arkay to fight the good fight?”

“I believe you mentioned it when last we spoke.”

“Well, it was easier said than done, because most things usually are,” Finverior said wryly. “Turns out an Altmer vampire — Minorne, I believe her name was — had enthralled all the Vigilants digging up the place and imprisoned the priest that I was looking for.”

Kajsa frowned. “ _All_ of them? How many were there?”

“Maybe about twenty or so. If they all weren’t trying to kill me, I would have considered that kind of Illusion magic pretty damn impressive,” Finverior commented. “She was using this staff to help her do it, though. From what Florentius said, it was in Ruunvald and she had some of the first Vigilants that she enthralled dig it out for her.”

“And where is this staff now?”

“I dropped it off in Wuunferth’s study on my way up here. Like you two, he was equally irritated at being woken up.” Finverior chuckled for a moment.

Kajsa’s frown deepened. _Another artifact that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands... wielded by an Altmer vampire, no less._

“And what made this matter so urgent that you disturbed our sleep for it?” Ulfric demanded.

“Because of this.” Face deadly serious, Finverior held up a sheet of folded parchment. “I found it in Minorne’s robes. You might want to take a look at it.”

Taking it from him, Kajsa unfolded it and scanned the lines of the letter, her throat seeming to constrict with every word.

> _Minorne,_
> 
> _Perhaps I was not clear enough the first time. When you find the Staff of Ruunvald, you will then dispose of any Vigilants that are left and immediately return to Castle Volkihar to report to me — not to Elenwen, to_ me. _The former Emissary may be one of the sole reasons that our mission is being backed by Alinor, but you do not answer to her; I doubt that Elenwen or the Dominion even realize the significance of our mission here... not just for what it entails for them, but how the Tyranny of the Sun will change the course of the world itself._
> 
> _Return soon, sister in blood.  
>  _

Ulfric scrutinized Kajsa’s drawn face. “What is it?” he asked, his tone urgent.

She looked up at him, struggling to regain her lost breath. “It would seem that the Dominion has found a new way to strike at Skyrim.”

 

From underneath the shadow of his hood, Ronan peered across the still waters of the Cistern to the Ragged Flagon, trying to pick out figures in the dim light. It was proving to be surprisingly difficult at this far of a distance, but he wasn’t about to move any closer before he knew who was waiting for him.

“There are four,” Serana murmured, seeming to read his thoughts. “The barkeep, the bouncer, and two others.”

 _I should have asked her initially instead of trying to find out for myself,_ he thought wryly. “Do you see —”

“— a red-haired man?” she finished for him. “Yes, I do. Is that who we’re looking for?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Ronan tried not to dwell too much on the fact that she’d said “we” instead of “you.” “Let’s go and — I’ll ask him what I need to ask him about and then — we’ll leave.” He tried to smile. “Easy enough.”

Serana nodded slightly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Taking in a steadying breath, Ronan started walking towards the Ragged Flagon, skirting the damp stones at the cistern’s edge; he heard Serana’s light footsteps right behind him. Tugging the edge of his hood down a little lower, he approached the wooden ramp where the bouncer stood. _Please don’t stop me,_ please _don’t stop me —_

Thankfully, the bouncer seemed to hear his unspoken prayers. “Stay outta trouble, or there’s gonna be trouble,” he growled as they passed. “You, too,” he added, glowering at Serana.

Ronan quietly sighed in relief. _Perhaps he was put off by the High Rock Guild leathers. They_ do _look similar to those used by my Skyrim counterparts._

 _Yes, that is a useful way to explain it,_ Nocturnal purred.

Ronan frowned slightly. _You – You clouded his mind, didn’t You?_ he asked, exasperation creeping in. _I could have taken care of him myself if I had needed to._

 _But you are so close to the answers that you seek,_ Nocturnal answered, almost sweetly. _Why should I allow you to be delayed now?_

Trying to ignore her, Ronan drew closer to the table where Brynjolf sat, his back to him as he talked with a rangy Redguard woman; Ronan vaguely remembered her from the last time he’d been to the Flagon, but he didn’t know her name.

“This whole thing’s gotten out of hand, Tonilia,” Brynjolf was saying, clearly frustrated. “Just because he looks like his father doesn’t mean he’s his father reborn.”

Ronan stopped in his tracks abruptly, staying in the shadows by the entrance. _They’re talking about me._

“Do you think I’m as narrow-minded as Vex and the others?” the Redguard — presumably Tonilia — retorted. “I don’t object to Ronan Sorleigh because of his father. What _I’m_ worried about is the fact that we don’t know anything about him besides that: where he was born, how he was raised, where he’s been for the past couple of decades —”

“Mercer wouldn’t have told us if he’d had a son. Maybe he didn’t even know himself.”

“Or maybe he just didn’t want the Guild to know,” Tonilia shot back, “which begs the question: _why?_ ”

Swallowing, Ronan approached the table. As he came nearer, both of the thieves glanced up at him; despite his hood, some sort of recognition showed on both of their faces, but Tonilia looked far warier than Brynjolf.

“Speak of the Daedra,” Brynjolf said softly, leaning back in his chair. “What are you doing back here, lad?”

“It’s a long story,” Ronan answered, shooting a nervous look at Tonilia, already sizing him up. “I need to speak to you. In private.”

After a moment of consideration, Brynjolf turned to Tonilia. “Can you make sure that no one from the Cistern gets in here? I’d rather not have a bloodbath on my hands.”

Giving him a quick nod, but her eyes still narrowed in suspicion, Tonilia stood up and moved off into the shadows ringing the bar, vanishing under an arched doorway.

Brynjolf chuckled quietly. “You have an awful lot of nerve coming back here,” he commented, but not unkindly. “In case you haven’t already heard, about half of the Guild’s not too keen on you.”

“I’ve noticed,” Ronan said darkly. He sat down in Tonilia’s vacated seat, and Serana took a seat as well.

Brynjolf noticed her. “Who’s she?” he asked, with no small amount of curiosity. 

“Again, it’s a long story.” Ronan took a deep breath. “I came to ask you something.”

“What about? Mercer?”

“No, not Mercer.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to say it. _Definitely leave out the Soul Cairn... and being Nocturnal’s Champion._ “You were with the Guild from a young age, weren’t you?”

“Aye, I was,” Brynjolf said carefully. “What of it?”

“Would you have remembered the other thieves in the Guild back then?”

“How far back are we talking, lad?” Brynjolf asked, laughing a little. 

“A little over a decade ago,” Ronan answered after calculating the amount in his head. “There was a Breton woman in the Guild then, with red hair. She had a family —”

Brynjolf cut him off, no longer laughing. “Rozenna?” His face was torn between surprise and remembrance. “Why are you asking about her?”

“It’s a bit complicated to explain,” Ronan said haltingly. _Rozenna. Her name was Rozenna._ “Just... what happened to her? I know she died, but —”

Brynjolf heaved a sigh, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Lad, you’re putting me on the spot here. Gods, Rozenna... I haven’t thought about her in a long time.” He looked straight at him. “Did Kajsa tell you to ask me about her?”

Serana frowned slightly. “What does the High Queen have to do with this?”

“You don’t know, do you?” Brynjolf realized, seeing Ronan’s confusion. “Rozenna... well, she was Kajsa’s mother.”

Ronan felt his jaw go slack. “Her — her _mother_?” he echoed. 

“Aye. She and her husband and Kajsa lived in Riften for a few years, when Kajsa wasn’t much more than ten. Roz joined the Guild to keep them fed. I ended up watching Kajsa a lot — became part of the family in a way.” Brynjolf smiled sadly. “But the four of us weren’t much of a family for long.”

“Rozenna died,” Ronan finished quietly. _It’s one thing to never know your parents... but to lose one at such a young age..._

Brynjolf nodded. “Roz was away on a job for us in Morthal when — well, you know, and Olav — her husband — blamed the Guild for her death. Took off with Kajsa, and that was the last I saw of her until she returned to Riften a few years ago.”

“But why would Kajsa have me ask about her?” Ronan asked.

Brynjolf looked away for a brief moment. “Because Mercer killed her, lad,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “He killed Rozenna and he lied about it, like so much else.”

He couldn’t breathe for a moment. “But _why_?” the Breton managed, trying to keep the desperation and shock out of his voice.

“Lad, I don’t know, and there’s likely no one living who can tell the tale.” Brynjolf sighed again, more heavily. “He told the Guild that she contracted vampirism and committed suicide when it was too late for her to be cured — even brought a damn note to Olav — but... when he tried to murder Kajsa, he told her who’d really killed Roz. It was —” he faltered “— it was just a nasty business, lad.”

“Small wonder she hated Mercer,” Ronan mused out loud, numbed by the memory of hate in Kajsa’s dark eyes. “Small wonder she hates me.” _I can only imagine what her opinion of vampires is…_

“Lad, it wasn’t your fault,” Brynjolf said tiredly. “Aye, it was awful, but you’re not to blame. The only one who can be blamed is dead.” He was silent for a moment. Then: “But I’m guessing you’re back in Riften for something more than Kajsa’s past.”

Ronan nodded. “I — I thought I’d look around Riftweald Manor. See if I could find anything about... well, anything.”

“You’re welcome to try, lad. We haven’t touched the place in ages, mostly because Mercer... well, he didn’t keep much. Didn’t do much writing. Not many personal belongings. Not many reasons for us to go there.” Brynjolf gave him a slight smile. “See what you find. I hope it’s better news than what I just told you.”

Ronan returned the smile, but there was no joy in it. _Whatever I find... it can’t be worse than what I already know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana search Riftweald Manor.


	29. Family History (Part II)

Just beyond the railings of the walkways over the canals, the shadow of Riftweald Manor loomed up before them; with its long balcony jutting out from the body of the house and the pointed rooftop that seemed to pierce one of the moons hanging overhead in the black sky, it seemed more a small mountain than a house. Though it looked like many of the other manors surrounding it, Riftweald was silent and still, without candlelight in its windows.

Gripping the key in one hand, Ronan stood before the front door, unmoving and unsure of what to do. _This was a bad idea. Coming back to Riften, trying to learn about my father, all of it... this will only bring me more guilt and more pain._

With a pang in his heart, he remembered the shade of Nightingale — _Rozenna,_ he reminded himself, _Rozenna was her name —_ wandering in the Soul Cairn forever, wondering about the fate of her husband and daughter — _Kajsa. High Queen and Dragonborn._

Ronan swallowed. _And my father killed her mother... uprooted her from her life..._

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Serana, beside him, said softly, seeming to sense his discomfort.

Ronan was already shaking his head. “I need to do this,” he managed. “I — need to find out what I can. Just so... I can understand. Or try to.” _Sometimes people’s actions cannot be explained._

Serana nodded. “Remember, I’ll be here. I promised I’d help you, and I keep my promises.”

Taking a deep breath, Ronan drew out the key from his clenched fist and carefully inserted into the lock, turning it. Before long, he heard a _click._ Withdrawing the key and dropping it inside a pouch on his bandolier, attempting to keep his breathing steady, Ronan grasped the door handle and turned it, opening the front door and hesitantly stepping over the threshold into darkness.

A faint, musty smell pervaded the stale air of the room — whatever room it was that he’d walked into — and he couldn’t see much more than murky, unclear shapes before him. Ronan squinted, but he was unable to make out anything else.

Stepping inside and closing the front door behind them, Serana conjured a ball of magelight that floated up to the ceiling, illuminating the room. It was an entry hall, bare of everything save for a dining table and chairs tucked away in a nook in the corner. To their left were a flight of stairs going to a second floor, and ahead was a closed set of doors. Despite the layer of dust that spread like a carpet over the floor and coated the furniture, everything looked surprisingly well-kept, if sparse and not particularly welcoming.

Serana spoke again, pulling Ronan from his thoughts. “Where do you want to start looking?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, his eyes still drifting over the room. “Upstairs, maybe. Or...” He thought for a moment. “I’ll start down here. If you could go upstairs and look around...”

Serana nodded, understanding what he was saying. “Sounds good. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” Pulling off her hood, she headed towards the stairs and began climbing up them.

Slowly, as if in a daze, Ronan moved off towards the dining room. The table had been cleared of food and silverware long ago, and half the chairs were placed on the table, leaving only one seat to sit in.

 _I suppose he didn’t entertain visitors often._ Spotting a set of stairs going down from the floor, Ronan headed for them. _I can’t say I’m surprised, given what I’ve heard about him._

The stairs led down into a small cellar, and the musty smell now mingled with a sickly odor that indicated the presence of rotting food a long time ago. A few animal-skin rugs on the stone floor, a stool and a haphazard stack of wooden plates on one end of the counter, and some empty barrels that still smelled faintly of fish tucked underneath the stairs were all that remained.

Walking back up the stairs, Ronan left the dining room and paused in front of the closed double-doors. He jiggled one of the handles, but found that it was locked. Digging out the house key again, he tried it in the lock. One of the doors soon opened.

Stepping over the threshold, he found himself in another mostly bare room, graced only with a long desk, a single chair, and a tall cabinet in the corner. Strangely enough, the cabinet had been padlocked shut, with a heavy-looking stack of crates piled in front of it.

Curious, Ronan tried to lift the top crate, but he could only manage holding it up for a few seconds before he let it fall with a _thud_ and a cloud of dust on top of the stack again. Sighing, he turned around and left the room. _Untouched... I’m willing to bet that the Thieves Guild already went through here and reclaimed everything they could use... sealed away what they didn’t want others to find._

He ascended the stairs to the second floor, looking around. Besides another small table with chairs piled on top of it, there was nothing there.

“Serana?” he called. “Where are you?”

“In here.”

Ronan followed the sound of her voice into a small bedroom. Unlike the other rooms in the house, this one had a fireplace — albeit a dead, cold one — and more furniture than most: a bed with its mattress still intact, a wardrobe, a nightstand, two chairs around the hearth.

Serana stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her chest, chewing her lip in thought. “I’ve poured over this room and I can’t find anything,” she said, frustration creeping into her voice. “You’d think that people normally hide things in their bedrooms, but...”

Ronan nodded tiredly. “I looked over the first floor already. Nothing.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Kajsa said that no one’s gone in here since Mercer’s death, but I think the Thieves Guild took all of his papers and belongings long ago.”

Serana arched an eyebrow. “I suppose we’ll have to go back and ask them about that, then. That will be fun,” she remarked dryly.

“Indeed.” Ronan sighed heavily, shifting his weight on the bed. “I’d hoped to find _something_ here, but —”

“Wait a moment.” Serana’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Did you hear that?”

Ronan frowned. “Hear what?”

“This — _rustling_ sound. You didn’t hear it?”

“No, but I don’t think my ears are anywhere near as sharp as yours,” Ronan said, laughing a little despite himself as he pushed himself up to a standing position.

“There it was again!” Serana exclaimed. “It sounded like it —” Her eyes fell on the mattress that Ronan had been sitting on. “Like it was inside the mattress,” she finished slowly.

Instantly, Ronan crouched down beside the bed and pulled out one of his daggers, carefully slitting the mattress’ fabric along the side. Sheathing his dagger again, he reached through the cut and started pulling out its stuffing: mostly wool, with clumps of feathers here and there.

Suddenly, his fingers brushed something rigid.

His heart beating a little faster, Ronan seized the unfamiliar object and pulled it out. It was a thick, leather-bound journal, well-used and with some of its pages ripped and hanging out.

For a moment, he just stared at it, not believing what he was seeing. But then it fully sunk in: he was in his father’s ransacked home, and against the odds, he had found something that once belonged to Mercer himself — something _written_.

“I think this might have been what I heard,” Serana was saying, plucking out a crumpled piece of parchment from one of the piles of stuffing. “What was in the mattress muffled the sound by quite a bit. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Thieves Guild had just passed right over this.” She glanced over it him, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw what was in his hands. “Is that —?”

“Maybe,” Ronan finally said. He opened the journal to a random page and scanned it quickly. The handwriting was cramped and small, ferociously scribbled down, but he could make some of it out. “Not really,” he said, unable to contain his disappointment. “It’s a journal, but not a personal one: mostly accounts of jobs, daily notes, Guild records... things like that.”

“It’s still something,” Serana said, trying to be optimistic.

Ronan nodded dully. “I suppose so.” His eyes drifted across the page, but then he abruptly froze, his gaze fixed on a single name, seemingly the clearest out of all the words: _Rozenna._

Hurriedly finding the beginning of the entry, he started to read it to himself:

> _Today, I saw someone that I never thought I’d see again: Rozenna. Hadn’t even known she survived everything Markarth threw at her. Walked into the Ragged Flagon today, wanting to know if she could join the Guild... apparently, she has a husband and a daughter to support now. So much for her efforts to be “respectable.” So much for waiting for me._
> 
> _Sent her to Delvin for some fishing jobs. Maybe he’ll keep her busy enough with work — or maybe she won’t be as competent as she claims and wind up in a jail cell. Either way, she won’t bother me anymore. I won’t let myself be bothered by her, either._

“It sounds like they knew each other before this,” Serana commented. “But from where?”

“The Guild doesn’t have every thief in Tamriel in their ranks; there are plenty who prefer to operate on their own, but the Guild isn’t necessarily fond of that. Maybe Rozenna was a freelancer that they previously tried to recruit,” Ronan suggested. “Freelance thieves or even splinter groups tend to use more unorthodox tactics — mostly murdering their marks — that give Guild thieves a bad name.”

“Why would the Thieves Guild be concerned about their public image?” Serana asked. “That seems a strange thing to be worried about.”

Ronan shrugged. “I’ve learned that there’s a bit of snobbery inherent in belonging to the Guild: it varies from country to country, but it’s there all the same. It’s just...” He paused. “I suppose it’s just the sense of being a cut above the average criminal, of being part of something... or just pride. It’s a contradiction that’s hard to explain.”

“So there _is_ honor among thieves after all,” Serana remarked wryly. “Or at least the organized ones.”

Ronan nearly laughed, but the memory of Jolaine’s deception resurfaced in his mind and sobered him. “Most times,” he said, turning his attention back to the journal and rapidly flipping through the pages, scanning for any more mention of Rozenna.

Serana peered over the top of the journal. “Wait.” She put her hand out, stopping him from turning the page. “It looks like this section’s been ripped out.”

Frowning, Ronan looked a little closer. Sure enough, there were still fragments sprouting from the spine where a page — or pages — had once been. _Did he write about Rozenna’s murder — and then destroy the evidence of his wrongdoing?_

Out of curiosity, he looked over to the next entry:

> _The husband left Riften today, taking his daughter with him. Got thrown out of the Cistern before he could cut up my face any more. Good riddance to them both. The girl could be trouble in the future if she ever decides to return._
> 
> _Only one last loose end to take care of... I owe her that much._

Ronan almost smiled. _I suppose that Kajsa_ did _prove to be trouble for Mercer after all. But what does he mean by a “loose end”?_

He turned the next page and something slid out from where it had been tucked inside the journal. Ronan seized it: a piece of parchment, thin and creased with age.

“What is it?” Serana asked.

“I don’t know,” he responded, unfolding it carefully. “I don’t think it’s one of the missing pages; it wouldn’t make any sense to keep it in here.” Opening it up fully, he examined it — and then froze when he saw the handwriting on the page.

“Are you all right?” Serana ventured. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a sense,” Ronan said slowly, still staring at the letter. “This writing... I know it. Eamon Sorleigh — my foster father — this is in his hand.” His eyes scanned the lines, reading it to himself.

> _Mercer:_
> 
> _This is a rather unexpected request, and one of enormity at that. I’m sorry to hear about the boy’s mother; truly, that is a tragedy. But the greater tragedy is that you knowingly deprived your son of a home and a father of his own for fourteen years of his life. One would have hoped that you remembered what it was like to be illegitimate yourself, and offer your son the same care that I did to you._
> 
> _But no matter. I will send a retainer to Riften in a week’s time for the boy. If what his mother told you was true and he displays an aptitude for our line of work, I will see to it that he is trained. Rest assured, my grandson will be taken care of._
> 
> _In time, perhaps when Ronan is older, you should come to Daggerfall to see him and try to make amends for the mistakes of your past. We will wait for you._
> 
> _E._ _S._

“What does it say?” Serana asked softly. “It looks like you discovered something.”

Ronan looked up, feeling as though his head was spinning. “Eamon was Mercer’s father and — and my grandfather,” he said hoarsely. “And... Mercer put me in Honorhall himself. While my mother was still alive.”

Serana frowned. “How do you know that your mother was still alive?”

“Because...” His voice trailed off as he looked back down at the letter, reading it over again. “Eamon mentioned the death of my mother like — like it happened _around_ the same time that the letter was written. And...” 

Suddenly, Ronan stopped, recalling a distant memory. 

_“What’s your name?”_

_“Ronan. Jus’ Ronan. I live in Honorhall, so I got no family.”_

_The woman –_ Rozenna, _he reminded himself,_ her name was Rozenna _– continued to look at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed. “How long have you lived there?” Now Ronan knew that the note he’d distrusted in her voice_ was _worry after all._

But why would she have worried about me?

_“All my life. I dunno who my parents were.” He grabbed the apple from her; she made no move to stop him. “I don’t wanna live there. I hate it.”_

_Something in her eyes softened. “Would you rather become someone like me?”_

_Looking at her armor, it suddenly struck him what she was. “You’re a —”_

_“Shhh.” Rozenna put a finger to his lips. “Yes, I am, and I think you can be, too. I can train you and make you one of us; I just need to ask my Guildmaster first.” She paused, her gaze a little more resolute. “Would you like that, Ronan?”_

The shock of the realization hit him like a blow to the chest. “It was her,” he murmured, feeling numb.

“Who was who?” Serana asked. 

“Rozenna,” he repeated, the pieces falling together in his mind. “ _Rozenna_ was my mother.” _She knew who I was. She knew... that I was her son._

“The spirit in the Soul Cairn?” Serana looked just as surprised as he. “Wouldn’t that make Kajsa your half-sister, then?”

Ronan blinked. “I — I suppose it would,” he managed, feeling a pit forming in his stomach.

Serana scrutinized his face. “You two don’t look alike at all,” she said finally. “Small wonder you didn’t discover the connection until now.”

Ronan nearly laughed. “No, I suppose that’s true.” He sobered slightly. “But... that would mean that... that my father killed my mother.” The grimness of the situation loomed before him. “There was no way he could have _not_ known that she was my mother; Rozenna came to him and told him about me. And — and I don’t think that she knew that I was in Honorhall either... until then.

“And I don’t even know what happened between them.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything about their past or how they met or if they even loved each other — or if Rozenna married another man just to get away from him and if he murdered her out of spite. I —” he swallowed again, feeling tears coming to his eyes. “I have _some_ answers, but all they leave me with are more questions.”

The room was silent for a moment before the still was broken by the rasping sound of uncrumpling parchment. Looking up, Ronan saw Serana carefully smoothing out the ball of parchment that had been lying loose in the mattress stuffing. 

Suddenly, Serana frowned. “Ronan... this is addressed to you.”

“What?” Ronan took it from her hands and peered at it. The letter was clearly not meant to be sent; many sections of it were crossed out, and stray blots of ink covered many of the words. But the handwriting — cramped and narrow — was instantly recognizable as that of Mercer’s. 

Heart pounding, he began to read it.

> _Ronan —  
> _
> 
> _You may never even receive this letter, and if you do, I might be dead by the time you read it. You do not know who I am, and it could also be that my identity is the farthest concern from your mind. But I feel compelled to write this letter, because you are the last of my family that I have left._
> 
> _I have lived a long life, and in that time, I have made more mistakes and careless decisions than I care to remember. I’ve stolen from my fellow thieves, broken my vows, murdered two of the only people who ever mattered to me, and destroyed the lives of many others. Any chance I have for redemption is long gone, and I may very well suffer the consequences for what I have done. But I do not intend to fall to the hand of the Thieves Guild and have my soul seized by Nocturnal._
> 
> _I know that I abandoned you. I placed you in an orphanage — and later, arranged for your adoption — rather than be a father to you. But though I am a condemned man, in this world and in the next, I ask for your forgiveness. It will be difficult to give, and I know I do not deserve it, but I ask for it nonetheless, hoping that you will be a better man than I am now._
> 
> _Eamon has told me before that you have become a fine thief and a son that any father would be proud of. If Nocturnal relents in her cruelty, perhaps I will see you before I die. If not, I hope that I will be reunited with your mother in the Evergloam._

A lump rising in his throat, Ronan’s gaze dropped down, avoiding Serana’s sympathetic gaze. _He... he was trying to make amends. He wanted to see me —_

The tears finally began to fall. The letter dropping into his lap, he covered his face with his hands, weeping quietly; whether it was from sorrow or relief, he did not know. 

He heard Serana shifting across the floor next to him, and felt her arms wrap around him, one cold hand rubbing his back gently, soothingly. Clinging to her as well, the two of them remained entwined as his sobs echoed through the empty house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ A setback in reading the Elder Scrolls.


	30. Secrets of the Scrolls

Trudging up the path that wound its way past the main gates and barricades — no longer crude ones of rough-hewn lumber, but the beginnings of stone fortifications with an iron portcullis — and up to Fort Dawnguard, Ronan could not help but notice how _alive_ everything seemed. There seemed to be people everywhere he turned: masons and laborers working on the walls, messengers running to and fro with weapons and armor tucked underneath their arms, soldiers firing crossbows at a long row of straw dummies and others dueling each other. Once or twice, Ronan caught glimpses of Durak and other Dawnguard members patrolling the surroundings, observing the proceedings with sharp eyes.

“It looks like Isran has certainly kicked things up a notch,” Serana observed, walking by his side. She had her hood up to conceal her features, but that didn’t stop some idlers peering at her out of curiosity or more. “At this rate, he’ll have an army in less than a week.”

Ronan nodded absently. _An army... that sounds about right._

Serana glanced over at him. “Still quiet?” It was not quite a question, but it was not harsh either.

“I — I’m sorry,” he apologized hastily. “My mind... has been elsewhere.”

Serana’s eyes softened. “Fair enough.”

Ronan averted his gaze from her and focused his attention back on walking, placing one foot in front of the other as they went up the path together. But even when ignored, the lump in his throat did not go away.

 _The past is dead, Ronan._ Nocturnal’s voice was not as smug as it once had been. _You cannot bring your parents back; nothing can._

 _Do You think I do not know that?_ he shot back.

 _With the way you are grieving, I thought you had taken leave of your senses,_ Nocturnal scoffed. _Why do you weep for a man you never knew?_

 _Because he was my father, however distant. And — and he wanted to make amends. He wanted to see me —_ Ronan stopped, feeling the lump in his throat harden, threatening to choke him. _Yes, he did many terrible things, but… Mercer was not the man I thought he was._

 _You forget that he broke his oath to me._ Nocturnal’s tone was like the edge of a knife. _He turned his back on_ me, _his sworn mistress — defiled the Twilight Sepulcher — stole the Skeleton Key — shattered my Trinity — and you would_ forgive _him for his sins?_

 _Aren’t You concerned at all about_ why _he did what he did, to try and find the root of it all?_ Ronan demanded. _Or do You only care that You carried out Your revenge on him — that no matter what the means, Your ends were achieved all the same?_

 _You know nothing of my ends, Ronan Sorleigh,_ Nocturnal said coldly. _And for your own sake, I would advise that you not question my will._

“And the triumphant questers return!”

Shaken out of his thoughts, anger still boiling in his blood, Ronan looked up to see Finverior strolling towards them, arms thrown wide and a grin from one ear to the other. Ronan wasn’t quite sure whether to stay on his course or turn and head in the opposite direction. _I’m not in the mood to deal with his japes right now._

Two men in Dawnguard armor hurried after Finverior. One was Ranmir, looking considerably more sober and alert than the last time Ronan had seen him. The other was Agmaer, who brightened instantly when he saw Ronan.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed. “Divines, it’s like I haven’t seen you in years; how are you?”

Ronan forced what he hoped was a convincing smile. “I’m well. Are you a full member of the Dawnguard now?” he asked, gesturing to Agmaer’s armor.

“I am. Sworn in just yesterday, along with Ranmir and some of the other recruits.” Agmaer’s face glowed with pride. “Durak’s said I’ve made real progress with the crossbow, but Ranmir’s better with a warhammer.”

Ranmir laughed a little; once again, it struck Ronan how removed he was from the surly drunkard he’d met in Winterhold. “You give me too much credit, Agmaer. Swinging a warhammer is far easier than fiddling with that Dwemer bow-contraption.”

“Still formidable,” Agmaer countered. “Almost makes me pity the vampires you’ll face.”

“Almost,” Serana remarked dryly.

Agmaer peered at her, his eyes widening in shock. “So it _is_ true, then,” he murmured.

“What, the mysterious, beautiful vampire double agent in our midst?” Finverior asked, propping one elbow up on Agmaer’s shoulder and leaning on him.

“Well, I didn’t see her at first,” Agmaer protested, flushing. “Isran said —” He faltered, nervously glancing back to Ronan.

“What is Isran saying about me?” Ronan asked curtly.

Ranmir spoke up. “We heard him saying to Durak that you could be a threat in the future. You and the vampire both.”

“But it didn’t sound like he’s going to do anything about it until the war against the vampires is won,” Agmaer added quickly. “Besides, there are plenty of people here who support you, if not —” Agmaer looked back at Serana questioningly.

“Serana,” the vampire in question supplied coolly.

“— if not Serana,” Agmaer finished. “Gunmar and Sorine think that your actions have spoken for you well enough, and I think Celann and a few of the others are partial to you. I’m not sure about Durak, but he _was_ the one who recruited you, so —” He shrugged helplessly. “And obviously, we both have your back, so we just thought we’d warn you.”

Ranmir grunted in agreement. There was a strangely thoughtful look on his face, and Ronan realized with a start that he was scrutinizing him. _Does he recognize me?_

Ronan resolved not to worry about Ranmir and forced himself to nod. “Thank you — both of you — for telling me.” _What does Isran have to gain by discrediting me? Haven’t I proven my worth — or is this just about Serana?_ He turned to Finverior. “Is there any other bad news you want to warn me of?” he asked, unable to contain his bitterness.

“Well, Sir Sunshine, there’s quite a bit of it,” Finverior said. “But I’ll start with the most pressing issue first.”

****

Despite the clouds in the sky, the sunlight streaming over the top of the watchtower was intensely bright, almost uncomfortably so. Dexion sat on a pile of crates near the parapets, his lined face lifted to the sun. As Ronan drew closer, he saw that a single strip of white cloth had been bound over Dexion’s eyes.

“What happened to him?” he whispered to Finverior.

“I think he can explain it better than I can.” Finverior raised his voice. “Dexion, Ronan and Serana have returned with the last Elder Scroll.”

Dexion turned his head slightly, his forehead furrowing in confusion for a moment as he tried to locate the source of Finverior’s voice. “Finverior? Are they with you?”

“We are.” Ronan stepped a little closer, Serana following close behind. “Can — are you still able to read them for us?”

Dexion was already shaking his head. “I am sorry, my friend. I can no longer be of use to you. It’s my fault, I’m afraid.” He sighed sorrowfully. “In my haste to read the first Scroll, I neglected to do the careful preparation required. I thought I would be able to allay the aftereffects — but I was wrong, and now, I pay for it dearly.”

“The covering on your eyes,” Ronan said, the thought slowly dawning on him. “Are you —?”

“Blind?” Dexion finished quietly. “Yes, I am.”

“Is there anything we could do to help?” Serana asked, stunned.

“No,” Dexion answered simply. “It’ll have to run its course, and there’s always the chance that I may never recover.”

Ronan’s shoulders slumped. “Then — we can’t read the Scrolls?” _We don’t have time to go to Cyrodiil and seek out another Moth Priest — and if Harkon or Molag Bal’s disciple somehow discover that we have the Scrolls needed to complete the prophecy..._

Dexion was silent for a moment. Then: “How much are you willing to risk to find Auriel’s Bow?”

Ronan frowned. “Are you saying there’s another way?”

“There is, but I cannot guarantee that you will be free of harm. Becoming blind could be the least of your worries.”

Ronan swallowed. “Don’t worry about that,” he finally said. “Just tell me what you know.”

“Scattered across Tamriel are secluded locations known only as ‘Ancestor Glades,’” Dexion began. “If the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth is performed within one of these glades, it should give you the answers that you seek.”

“I’ve never heard of this ritual,” Serana commented. “What does it entail?”

“It involves removing the bark from a Canticle Tree. In keeping with tradition, one must use a specific tool in the Ancestor Glade to perform this task: an implement known as a Draw Knife,” Dexion clarified. “The bark will attract Ancestor Moths to you. Once enough of the moths are following you, they should provide you with the second sight needed to read an Elder Scroll.”

“Moths?” Ronan repeated incredulously.

Dexion smiled. “It is no mere coincidence that we are named Moth Priests. The voice of the Ancestor Moth has always been an integral part of reading the Elder Scrolls — not literally, of course. They maintain a connection to ancient magic that allows Moth Priests to decipher them.”

“I don’t see how those little winged buggers are particularly magical,” Finverior remarked, “but hey, I’ll bite.”

Shooting a glare at him, Serana punched Finverior in the arm.

“If you listen closely when you’re in the Glade, you should be able to hear their song... a soft, harmonious trilling,” Dexion explained. “It’s through this ancestral chorus that the moths tap into a sort of primal augur and become a wellspring for deciphering the Scrolls. By having the Ancestor Moths close to a priest, they can utilize the conduit and share the moth’s augury. Only the most resilient of priests can do it this way; it takes years of practice to interpret the harmony.”

“Then what makes you think that any of us stand a chance at it?” Ronan asked.

“You’ve already come this far, and you’ve recovered several Elder Scrolls. Whether you believe in it or not —” Dexion inclined his head slightly in the direction of Finverior “— the Scrolls have... a bit of a mind of their own. If they didn’t want you to find them, you wouldn’t be standing before me now. Because of this, I believe that you are meant to hear the ancestral chorus.”

“Only one way to find out,” Finverior said wryly. “Where can we find one of these glades?”

“‘We’?” Ronan asked skeptically.

Finverior gave him a hurt look. “What, I can’t come with you?”

“I believe there is a single one here in Skyrim, in the Pine Forest to the south,” Dexion responded. “Sadly, I do not know its exact location within.”

“Good enough to go on,” Finverior said. “I know Falkreath Hold like the back of my hand.”

“Really,” Serana said flatly.

The other flashed her a grin. “Jarl Siddgeir doesn’t exactly do a lot to discourage crime; you’d be surprised at how many bolt-holes and smuggler’s dens are tucked away in the Pine Forest. If you’re looking for a hidden cave there... well, I’m your man. Or rather, I’d like to be.”

Ronan glanced over at Serana despairingly. “Please tell me you’re not considering bringing him along.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Serana answered grimly, turning back to Dexion. “One last question: do you have any suggestions as to which order we should read the Scrolls in?”

“From what I read in your Scroll, the Elder Scroll that foreshadows the defiance of the gods with the blood of mortals is the key to the prophecy,” Dexion replied. “That is all I know. I am sorry I could not have been of more help to you.”

“You were a great help, Dexion,” Ronan assured him. “We wouldn’t have found out about the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth any other way.”

“Every Moth Priest is taught this ritual, but very few get the chance to actually perform it.” It was hard to tell with the blindfold over his eyes, but Dexion looked unusually worried. “If it does work for you... consider yourself very fortunate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan's loyalties — and love — are questioned.


	31. Love's Keen Sting

“You summoned me,” Ronan said flatly. He stood at attention with his hands folded behind his back: partly to give an appearance of civility, but mostly to fight the urge to go for his daggers.

Isran snorted. “Didn’t know you had a knack for stating the obvious, Sorleigh.” He stood up from his seat behind a rough-hewn table strewn with maps and letters, and he crossed his arms. “Since you and the bloodsucker are showing your faces around Fort Dawnguard again, I can only conclude that you must have made some progress.”

Ronan swallowed the ire welling up in his throat. “Yes. _Serana_ and I recovered the other two Elder Scrolls, with the help of Finverior. But...” He paused, trying to choose his next words carefully. “We discovered some complications —”

“The Moth Priest’s blindness,” Isran finished. “An inconvenient development.”

“But not insurmountable,” Ronan said quickly. “Dexion spoke of another way to read the Elder Scrolls, but it can only be done in a specific place — an Ancestor Glade, it’s called. If we —”

“Spare me the details,” Isran interrupted. “I’m only interested in whether you can you do it or not.” He fixed the other with a pointed look. “So tell me, Sorleigh: can you?”

“Dexion seems to believe that I can,” Ronan said cautiously. “As he _is_ the expert on the Elder Scrolls, I’m inclined to believe his opinion.”

Isran looked less than pleased with his answer, but he nodded. “And you’re leaving as soon as you can.” It was not a question.

“Yes, I am.”

“And you’re bringing the bloodsucker with you.” Now it was more of a command than anything else.

“ _Serana_ is coming with me, yes, as is Finverior.” Ronan declined to mention that the latter’s presence would be less than ideal, but he couldn’t deny that Finverior had his uses.

“And when do you expect to return?”

“I don’t know. It could be in a week or it could be double that time. We don’t know exactly what the Scrolls will show; if they lead us straight to Auriel’s Bow, it could be a while before you see us again.”

Isran was quiet for a moment, frowning in thought. Then: “You’re doing better than I thought.” His tone was uncharacteristically neutral.

Ronan blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

“Last time I checked, Sorleigh, I thought you had ears.” Isran barked out a short, gruff laugh. “Not blunt enough for my liking, but you’re a good fighter and you get things done and damn the consequences. Got some respect from the others, too.” His mouth curled with distaste. “Still doesn’t excuse your more questionable ties.”

“You mean Finverior?” Ronan asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t who Isran was speaking of.

“The Bosmer whore’s not as much of a concern to me as the bloodsucker is.” Isran’s gaze hardened. “You still haven’t dealt with it, and that worries me.”

“ _Serana_ hasn’t given me any cause to doubt her or her loyalties,” Ronan shot back. “She’s helped me rescue Dexion and recover the Elder Scrolls, and you _still_ don’t trust her? She’s not like other vampires, Isran!”

“Every vampire claims that they’re ‘not like other vampires,’ but somehow, they’re all the same: cunning, dangerous, untrustworthy,” Isran said curtly. “If it hasn’t betrayed you yet, you should watch your back — or your neck — even more closely.”

“Why do you hate vampires?” Ronan asked quietly, but with an edge. “Why do you hate them all so much that you can’t see when one is trying to help you?”

“That’s none of your damn business, Sorleigh,” Isran growled.

“It _is_ my damn business when you use my association with Serana as grounds to call my loyalty into question and spread dissension in the Dawnguard’s ranks,” Ronan snapped. “But I suppose it’s too much to ask for you to be truthful when you are content with lies.” Seething, he turned around to stalk out of the door.

“It was my daughter.”

Ronan stopped in his tracks, slowly glancing back over his shoulder.

“It was my daughter,” Isran repeated, his voice low. “Ayesha... she was no more than six years old when she fell ill. No potion or salve could do anything to ease her suffering. And one night, I was telling her a story, trying to calm her, and... she simply stopped breathing.” He looked down, away from the other’s eyes. “My wife soon lost her will to live. I — I buried both of them in the space of a week.

“But soon my brother’s son fell sick as well, and then more and more children after him, just like my Ayesha. The healers did not know how to cure them, but now they knew what was wrong: they all were losing blood, leaving their bodies weak and helpless. And whispers of vampires began to spread until they were impossible to ignore.

“Some in Rihad, my father among them, sought the aid of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Together, they gathered a party of men to hunt down the vampire and kill it before it could claim any more children. We searched the whole city and the outskirts too before we found what we were looking for: a priestess — one of the ones who we’d sent for to _heal_ our children — climbing out of the bedroom window of my brother’s son with his blood still smearing her face.

“I was the one who killed the blasphemous bitch. Cut off her head before she could sink her teeth into my neck and burned her corpse for good measure.” Isran swallowed. “But I was still not at peace. I left Rihad as one of the Vigilants, and I never looked back.”

He raised his eyes again, and Ronan saw that they were full of anger and pain. “Even if a vampire appears in the guise of a friend, you cannot trust them — not even _your_ bloodsucker, Sorleigh. In the end, they always taint what you love.”

 

“The Thalmor, allied with _vampires_?” Galmar growled incredulously. “Are you sure that that damned Bosmer’s information was correct?”

“Unfortunately, I am.” Kajsa stared out of the clouded windowpane, her eyes unfocused on the snow swirling outside. “Finverior brought a letter he’d found on the vampire’s corpse tying her to the Dominion.”

“The former First Emissary, no less,” Ulfric spat, his face grim. “If she was the one who proposed this alliance to the Dominion, it’s no wonder that she escaped the headsman’s axe.”

“Or was put in charge of the searches for artifacts in Skyrim,” Yusef mused.

“You think these plots might be connected?” Galmar asked.

“Finverior also returned with a staff that the vampire agent had found in Ruunvald — and the Thalmor sure as Oblivion haven’t been staying out of Nordic barrows as of late,” Kajsa said dryly. “What’s more, Wuunferth says that the staff possesses powerful Illusion magic: strong enough to control the minds of multiple people. If the Thalmor _had_ succeeded in retrieving it...” She left her sentence unfinished.

“However, the Thalmor did _not_ succeed, nor will they succeed in retrieving anything else,” Yusef said briskly. “Once Wuunferth’s done with the staff, I’ll send a courier to Winterhold with it; I’m sure the Arch-Mage can find a bit more room in her stash of artifacts she’s safekeeping for us.”

“Speaking of the Arch-Mage,” Galmar said gruffly, “I sent out a regiment a couple of days ago to the tombs in the Reach that she wrote to you about. If there are Dragon Priest masks there, they’ll find them.”

Kajsa turned and glanced at him sharply. “Are you quite sure your soldiers know what they’re getting into? If none of them have ever stepped foot inside a barrow before, they’ll likely die from traps before the draugr even know they’re there.”

“I sent Hroa with them,” Galmar said. “She might have been a milk-drinker before, but she was at Korvanjund with us, and she’ll know what to do to keep them alive.”

“There’s still something that unsettles me about this,” Ulfric said. “The letter that Finverior found made mention of another Thalmor agent — another vampire — still in Skyrim.” He glanced over at Kajsa. “Didn’t Sorleigh tell you that there was a clan of vampires on an island north of Haafingar?”

“Yes; they were spoken of in the letter,” Kajsa answered. “What are you thinking?”

“With vampires that close to Solitude — and given the fact that there is strong evidence of their ties to the Dominion — the security of the city could be compromised.” His eyes bored into hers. “And I can think of one person in Solitude that Alinor would much rather have on the throne of Skyrim than you and I.”

Disturbed, Kajsa glanced over at Galmar. “How many more soldiers can you spare?”

“As many as it takes to keep the witch-elves from retaking Skyrim.”

She turned to Yusef. “Are any of our agents near Haafingar?”

“Not currently, but the Brotherhood is a long day’s ride away.”

“Send your people to Solitude, the both of you.” Kajsa turned back to the window, her jaw set. “If the Dominion has designs on the city, they’re not reaching Elisif.”

 

“You’ve been very quiet, Sir Sunshine,” Finverior commented, taking a swig from his bottle of mead. “Something troubling you, or is it just me?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ronan sighed and leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his forehead with his palms. “I’m not in the mood to discuss this right now.”

“And — let me guess — you never will be?”

After leaving Fort Dawnguard early in the morning, the three of them had made good time traveling along the southern border of Skyrim through the Rift. They had rented some rooms in the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead for the night and planned to continue on to Falkreath Hold in the morning; Serana got her own room, but much to Ronan’s chagrin, he and Finverior were forced into sharing the last room left. Fortunately, it had two beds, but Ronan still dreaded spending the night so close to the other.

“I said that I don’t want to talk about it,” Ronan said irritably. “Can we just focus on the mission at hand?”

Finverior snorted. “We’re heading to Falkreath Hold to find a magical cave full of magical moths that can help us read an Elder Scroll. Is there anything else to focus on?”

“You know what I mean,” Ronan groaned. “Just... drop it.”

“Of _course_ I know what you mean,” Finverior chuckled. “But no, I won’t. Look,” he said, leaning back in the chair by the bedside, “as strange as it sounds, Ronan, you’re the closest thing to a friend that I’ve got. Something’s bothering you, and I want to help out.” He shrugged. “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t, but I want to know anyway.”

Ronan raised his head. “You know,” he said finally, “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by name.” _I’m not sure what surprises me more... that or the fact that he considers me a friend._

“I wouldn’t get used to it,” Finverior said airily. “So: will you tell me?”

Ronan was silent for a moment. Then: “There’s a lot. I —” He stopped and thought about what to say. _I_ really _don’t want to bring up the subject of my family right now._ “I don’t know where to begin.”

“How about we start with Serana?” Finverior crossed one leg over the other, rolling his ankle as he did so. “Do you two have a thing or do you two have a thing?”

“We don’t ‘have a thing,’” Ronan snapped. _This is what I get for thinking I can open up to_ Finverior _of all people._ “We’re just —” he faltered “— friends.”

Finverior raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. “Really? From where I’m standing, lover boy, it seems like you want to be more than friends with her. I mean, I don’t blame you. Honest.”

“It’s not like that,” the other insisted. “Gods, can’t a man and a woman be friends without having anything remotely romantic between them?”

Finverior shrugged. “Stranger things have happened,” he admitted.

“Exactly,” Ronan said firmly. “Besides, even if you _were_ right, I don’t even know if —”

“If she returns your feelings?” Finverior smiled smugly at the other’s wide-eyed expression. “So you _do_ wish there was something between you after all! I’m better at ferreting out answers than you give me credit for.”

Exhaling deeply, Ronan pushed his hair away from his forehead. _Damn him._ “I don’t know what to think,” he said quietly. “I’m... I’m very fond of Serana, but —”

“But _what?_ ” Finverior pressed.

“I don’t know if I want to fall in love again,” Ronan finished, the words coming out before he could think about what he was saying. “I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”

Finverior contemplated him for a moment, his face sober for once. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, thinking. “It was Marat, wasn’t it?”

Ronan nodded, feeling the lump rising in his throat. _The wounds just keep breaking open..._ “Jo — she was everything to me,” he managed. “I’d known her since I came to Daggerfall, since we were children and half-playing at being thieves, and — and I was in love with her for almost as long. And I — I _trusted_ her.

“I was —” Ronan looked away, unable to meet the other’s gaze. “I was going to ask her to marry me. Divines, I’d even bought a _ring_ —” A sob escaped his throat and he stopped abruptly, trying to collect himself before continuing.

“And then I found out that she’d accepted jobs from the Dominion — and committed treason while doing them. And then I came to Skyrim and, well… you know what happened next.” He laughed bitterly, choking on the sound. “I don’t know if your contract on my life was the Dominion punishing her, or her proving her devotion to the Dominion, or a bit of both, but — I suppose that’s what I get for being too blind to see anything but her.”

Unexpectedly, Finverior reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Sir Sunshine,” he commented wryly. “Plenty of people do stupid things for love, and some people even feel bad about them. You’re not exactly alone.”

Ronan raised his eyes to him. “What are you trying to say?”

Finverior sighed. “Listen, I know that me giving relationship advice is hypocritical at best, but I know a thing or two about problems, believe me. My problems are multitude, but as far as relationships go, my main problem is commitment. _Your_ problem is that you can’t move past the gorgeous brunette who was forced to order your death. Whether or not she wanted you dead doesn’t matter here,” he said hastily as Ronan opened his mouth. “The point is, she did it, and now you have to deal with it.

“Now, I’ve moved on from a fair number of men and women. Sometimes, it was the right decision, other times, not so much. But goddamn, it’s always hard. And the worst part is, you’re going to have to do it at _some_ point.”

“But how do you even do it?” Ronan asked hopelessly.

Finverior smiled slightly. “You find someone that makes you forget everything that happened to you before them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan, Serana, and Finverior find the Ancestor Glade.


	32. Whispers of the Past

The cave at the mountain’s peak was cold and eerily quiet, but much less so when compared to the biting chill and the relentless howling of the gale battering them as they climbed. Even with her vampiric immunity to cold, Serana was beginning to feel a little frozen herself after trudging through the snow that the three of them had encountered half-way up the mountain path; she was grateful that the cave’s floor seemed relatively dry, if covered with near-dead weeds and tangles of shrubs that were next to impossible to see in the dim light.

Behind her, she heard Finverior trip and nearly fall, cursing under his breath. “Where in Oblivion did all those torches go?” he demanded of no one in particular. “Unless we want to break our necks in this hole, we need some light.”

“Well, Finn, there’s a funny thing that happens when you scale a mountain at dark in the middle of a snowstorm,” Ronan replied, an unusually caustic edge to his voice. “The torches blow out.”

“Just to be clear, Sir _Sarcasm_ , I never said that we had to climb the damn mountain _tonight_ ,” Finverior shot back. “All I said was that this was one of the only caves we hadn’t looked into yet — no pun intended — and that we should probably check it out at some point.”

Ignoring their bickering, Serana continued forward, her eyes adjusting easily to the dim light. She’d be surprised if they actually found anything here; from the state of the overgrown foliage and the scattered, stilted trees growing out of the rocks and soil, no one but animals had been here for a long time.

Finverior sighed. “If this ends up being a wasted trip, I’m going to have very strong words with Dexion when we get back.”

“It’s not his fault he didn’t know the location of the Ancestor Glade,” Ronan said. “Probably very few people do.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient?” Finverior retorted dryly.

Blocking out the conversation of her companions and trying to listen to the noises in the cave, Serana frowned suddenly in surprise. _Is that — is that truly what I’m hearing?_

“There’s water up ahead,” she said out loud, turning around.

Finverior blinked in surprise. “How do you know, Lady Vamp?”

She smiled a tad patronizingly at him, deciding to let the nickname slide for now. “Because vampires have very good hearing. Do you not know that?”

Ronan paled a bit, but then he regained his composure. “Lead the way, Serana. We need to refill our wineskins anyway,” he told Finverior. “A spring’s the best thing we’ve stumbled upon in this venture so far.”

Finverior shrugged, but his eyes darted over to the other warily. “Can’t argue with that.”

Turning about, Serana continued ahead, deftly stepping around the rotting branches and crumbled stones that littered the crude path through the cave. But however easily and gracefully she moved, her mind was in turmoil.

Her supernaturally good hearing had led to more inadvertent eavesdropping the night before — initially, at least. With their two rooms so close together, she could not help but overhear bits and pieces of Finverior and Ronan’s conversation, but she hadn’t truly started listening in until she heard her name mentioned — and she had not at all expected what she heard.

 _I’m very fond of Serana, but — I don’t know if I want to fall in love again._ Ronan’s words rung over and over again in her mind, filling her head anew each time. _I don’t know if I’m ready yet._

 _And I — I could say the very same things of myself,_ she thought, ducking slightly to avoid a low-hanging stalactite. _If there was anyone I loved before Mother sealed me away, even before I became a vampire... I have forgotten them._

_But does that mean that I should seek out someone to replace them?_

Shoving her sudden melancholy to the edges of her thoughts, Serana continued through the cave for a while, and then she stopped, catching the faintest flicker of light from out of the corner of her eye. Turning her head slightly, she glimpsed an opening in the cave’s walls. Taking a step closer and listening attentively, Serana noted that the rushing of water she had heard earlier was coming from that direction.

Striding ahead towards the light, Serana reached and slipped through the cleft in the rock — and her jaw dropped when she saw the sight before her.

Below her, at the foot of a winding stairway of stone steps, lay a pool of clear, shimmering water, fed by small waterfalls cascading from the cliffs that surrounded it and a single river winding through the rocks. Pine trees, straight and slender and swathed with deep green needles, encircled the pool, and small white wildflowers sprouted up along the path to the water’s edge. The cavern was illuminated by beams of pale light that streamed from openings in the cave’s ceiling, and apart from the soft rushing of the water, silence hung heavy over the glade.

From behind her, Finverior whistled in awe. “Dibella’s tits... look at this place. No one’s been here in... centuries, maybe.”

“I doubt there’s any other place like it in Skyrim,” Ronan agreed, sounding a bit breathless. “It’s beautiful.”

“And very ancient.” Serana began to make her way down the winding steps, going slowly enough to keep her footing and marvel at the cavern at the same time. “We’ve definitely found what we’re looking for.”

All of a sudden, Ronan grasped her shoulder. “Look down there. Do you see that? Do you think that’s the draw knife that Dexion spoke of?”

Serana followed the direction he was pointing down to the very center of the pool, to a series of three primeval stone arches leading up to a small island, ringed by pink-flowered trees and hosting a strange circular sculpture. Floating in the empty space formed by the sculpture was a rounded blade with two handles.

“It would make sense to find one here,” she concluded, glancing back at him.

Ronan nodded, his eyes sparkling with wonder as he looked around the Ancestor Glade. His demeanor was definitely improved from before — especially last night — and Serana felt a peculiar sort of relief at that observation.

“I don’t think the draw knife will just fly up to us,” Finverior observed dryly, squeezing past the both of them. “C’mon, you two. We’ve got an Elder Scroll to read.”

 

“You have made up your mind, then,” Ulfric confirmed, crossing his arms.

“Of course I have.” Kajsa dipped her quill into the inkwell and pulled a piece of blank parchment towards her. “Isran and the Dawnguard are certainly proving capable of exterminating vampires, but they’re not adequately prepared for the Thalmor, let alone an alliance between the two. He must be warned.”

“Of that, there is no doubt. But my concern is that Isran will want to know how you came by this information. From what I have heard of him, he is... _mistrustful._ ”

Kajsa smiled humorlessly. _Aren’t we all._ “I do not plan to tell him what does not concern him. Only of the Thalmor’s most recent alliance.”

Ulfric sighed tiredly, a tad exasperated. “Perhaps I was not being clear enough. What I am saying is this: do not tell Isran anything.”

“He’s hardly stupid. He will find out sooner or later, whether from us or from Finverior — who also works for him, last time I checked,” Kajsa said dryly.

“Then pay Finverior to keep his mouth shut and send another regiment to Fort Dawnguard to shore up defenses. You have done it in the past; he has no reason besides his own paranoia to suspect you of any ulterior motives now.”

Kajsa settled back in her chair, her gaze distant and pensive. “So many secrets to keep track of,” she mused quietly. “I don’t recall the Civil War being the same way.”

“This is a different kind of war.” Ulfric’s countenance was grave. “We may feel as though we know what we are up against, but we are fighting blind.”

Kajsa glanced over at her husband, surprised at his frustrated tone, but before she could say anything, there was a knock on the door.

 _At this time of night, it better be something of worth._ “Who is it?” she called.

“This one, High Queen.” The low, purring voice was that of Berezhi.

“And this one too.” Another voice, this one a harsher rasp.

Kajsa recognized it immediately. Standing quickly, she rushed to the door of the chamber and opened it. Berezhi stood just outside the threshold, another Khajiit at her side. Despite the other’s rangier build, her rust-colored fur, and the rakish amalgamation of leather armor and light cloth traveling clothes that she wore, the yellow-green color of her eyes marked her and Berezhi as sisters.

Relief washed over Kajsa. “You’ve returned,” she observed, holding the door open. “I was wondering when you would.”

“This one and her big sister both.” Dar’Esti gently elbowed Berezhi in the ribs. “You would not believe how this one was delayed by Berezhi’s scolding. This one could have been in your chambers an hour ago.”

“Do not exaggerate, little sister,” Berezhi said, considerably less than amused. “Your wagging tongue has better things to do right now.” She glanced at Kajsa. “This one leaves her to you, High Queen — but this one hopes that Dar’Esti will at least bid farewell to her big sister before her departure.” Lightly flicking Dar’Esti’s ears, Berezhi left the room and closed the door behind her.

Dar’Esti rolled her eyes, but then composed herself and addressed Kajsa. “This one apologizes for not communicating, but Dar’Esti felt that the High Queen would rather hear this in person.”

“Indeed.” Kajsa gestured to her vacated seat, feeling the tenseness seeping back into her limbs. “Sit down and tell me everything. Leave nothing out.”

 

“Good hearing, huh?”

Glancing away from Ronan, down on the island in the center of the pool with long peels of scraped-off canticle bark in his palms, Serana looked over at Finverior. “What of it?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering how much you heard of the conversation between me and Sir Sunshine last night.” The insufferable grin on his face became that much wider.

Serana pointedly shifted her eyes away from him.

“Okay, so you heard a bit.” For once, Finverior didn’t sound _quite_ as irritating as his smile indicated. “Well?”

“What do you want me to say?” Serana asked, a tad exasperated.

Finverior shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know... did you know about his sordid past at all? Did you know that he likes you? Did you know that he has enough angst to fill a sappy tragedy?”

“That’s not fair,” she chided. “Ronan has gone through a lot over these past weeks.”

“Like finding out the woman he was going to ask to marry him was ordered by the Thalmor to commit treason and hire assassins to kill him?” Finverior suggested. “But I expect that you heard plenty about it last night.”

“In bare minimum.” She hadn’t known it before, but now, she couldn’t help but wonder about the mysterious “Marat.” _But I have a feeling that she is a subject that Ronan would rather not broach..._

“You _could_ ask Sir Sunshine more about her, if you’re curious. I’m really not that informed.” Finverior idly scratched his neck. “But then again, that would require you to have a conversation, and then he and you would just stare dreamily at each other, wishing that you could fuck with your eyes, and it’s pretty awkward for us bystanders.”

Serana was momentarily at a loss for words. “Excuse me?” she finally sputtered. “I — we — I do _not_ —”

Finverior chuckled. “Cut the act, Lady Vamp. You both might dance around it, but you and he _really_ like each other. The problem is that neither of you are acting on it.”

She opened her mouth, more than ready to tell him that it was none of his business, but a soft rushing sound intruded on her hearing first. _What is that?_

Serana looked down towards Ronan and her eyes widened. A beige-brown cloud was weaving around him and surrounding him from all sides; with a start, she realized that they were hundreds, if not thousands, of moths, all beating their wings exactly in time with each other. Listening closer, she detected something else: a high, keening song, rising and falling as the Ancestor Moths enveloped Ronan in a shimmering haze.

“Little buggers have really taken a liking to him, haven’t they?” Finverior cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted down. “I think you can read the Scroll now!”

Ronan raised his hand in assent and then lifted up the Elder Scroll from where he had tucked it under his arm. As the two of them watched, he carefully unfurled it.

The song of the Ancestor Moths mounted in pitch as they flew around Ronan in a frenzied circle again and again and again, shielding him and the Scroll from view. The stray beams of light streaming through the Ancestor Glade became blinding in their intensity, and Serana instinctively covered her eyes with her arm as the glaring light hit her skin.

And as suddenly as it had begun, everything stilled, leaving only the sound of the water flowing into the pool. With a great rush of tiny wings, the moths scattered in all directions, flying up over the rocks and into the boughs of the pine trees. Ronan was left standing alone in the center of the island, the Elder Scroll half-open and clutched in one hand; he swayed on his feet and his face was as white as snow.

Serana instantly leapt down the last few stairs and ran through the shallow water of the pool, reaching Ronan just as his knees nearly gave out. He fell back into her arms, the Elder Scroll dropping from his grasp.

“What’s with Sir Sunshine?” Finverior splashed through the water, stopping just short of the island. “He doesn’t look too good.”

“I don’t know.” Trying to keep the worry out of her voice, Serana carefully laid Ronan down on the ground, just by where the Elder Scroll had fallen. “Close the Scroll, and whatever you do, don’t look at it.”

Finverior obeyed, grabbing the Scroll and, averting his eyes, started rolling it back into the jeweled case. Loosening the collar of his leathers, Serana pressed two fingers to Ronan’s throat; his pulse was steady, if a little weak. _The Scroll must have done something to him... but what?_

With a groan, Ronan cracked open his eyes. “Serana? What —?”

Serana sighed, relieved. “Just lie still.” She placed a hand on his forehead; his skin tingled slightly with some kind of heat, but he wasn’t feverish. “Are you all right? For a moment, I thought I — I thought we had lost you.”

“I’m fine... I think.” Ronan sat up with no small amount of effort, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I was going to be blinded for a moment... everything was so _bright_...”

“No kidding,” Finverior said wryly. “See anything?”

Ronan frowned slightly. “A map,” he said slowly. “A map of Skyrim — more of western Skyrim, the Reach and Haafingar. I — I saw a cave marked there... it _glowed_ with this light...” He paused. “I think that’s where we’ll find Auriel’s Bow.”

“Well, you’re on your own when it comes to hunting down another damn cave; the Reach is easy to get lost in, which is why I try to stay out of it.” Finverior stood up, the Elder Scroll fully closed now. “Did you at least make out its location?”

“Slightly southwest of Dragon Bridge, on the northern side of the Karth River.” Ronan seemed surer of that fact. “If we leave from here, it’ll take us maybe two or three days to get up there — maybe more if we run into trouble.”

“Then let’s not waste any time,” Finverior suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get to this cave before the vampires figure out what we’re doing.”

“Agreed,” Serana murmured. _We’re so close. We — we actually have a chance of putting an end to the prophecy._

Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice coming from the direction of the stairs. “It may be too late for that, Lady Serana.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ As if the situation can't get any worse for Ronan and Kajsa, it gets worse.


	33. Grave Tidings

There were vampires on the stone stairs.

Instinct kicked in, and Ronan reached behind him in an attempt to grab his crossbow, wincing at the unnatural contortion of his shoulder. Fumbling to get it off his back, he reached for the quiver of bolts on his belt at the same time that Finverior out his bow and nocked an arrow in one motion, aiming it towards the invaders.

“Wait!”

Ronan’s fingers froze where they were upon hearing Serana’s desperate voice.

“‘Wait’?” Finverior echoed incredulously, unwavering in his stance.

Serana stepped towards the stairs, closer to the two vampires that were there. Ronan squinted, trying to make out their faces with his blurred vision. Both were tall and lean and dressed similarly in dark, elegant leather armor, but one was a Dunmer with ash-grey skin and a crimson topknot and clipped beard, and the other a Bosmer with a carroty mop of hair and fidgety hands, who hung back in the shadow of the other.

“Garan,” Serana said quietly. “ _Please_ , don’t do this. I don’t want to harm you.”

“Likewise, my lady.” The Dunmer vampire folded both hands behind his back. “I believe you have misinterpreted my being here.”

Serana frowned slightly. “Did my father not send you?”

“Harkon did order me to seek you out, rescue you, and bring you home.” Garan’s eyes flitted over Ronan and Finverior, lingering on the former’s crossbow. “But though you are with agents of the Dawnguard, it would seem that you do not need rescuing.”

“If there’s anyone I would need to be rescued from, it would be my father,” Serana said bitingly.

“Indeed,” Garan agreed. “With the state of things, rescue from Harkon is something all sensible members of the court should be considering.”

“What’s happening at Castle Volkihar?” Ronan interrupted, worried.

It was the Bosmer vampire who piped up. “Lord Harkon is going mad. Or mad _der_ ,” he corrected, his voice high and nervous. “He has shut himself up in his chambers and he does not leave — not even for meals any more. Aside from Garan, the only member of the court who is permitted to see him is the Disciple.”

Serana’s eyes widened in fear. “Ronthil, do you know what this — this _Disciple_ is doing?”

“No, and I have no desire to ask after it with either of them,” Garan said curtly. “Despite this ‘Disciple’s’ prodigious abilities and his claimed ties to Our Lord, your father should not place so much trust in one so new to the court. I have tried to counsel Harkon as such, but —”

“But _what?_ ” Serana pressed.

Garan sighed. “I fear that this Disciple... holds sway over him. Your father has a strong will, my lady, but always a susceptible, suspicious mind — and I fear that the Disciple is using that against him. To what end, I know not, but I suspect the worst.”

“Deposing Harkon and taking over the court?” Finverior suggested helpfully. “ _That’s_ bad.”

“And if Molag Bal is guiding the Disciple as to how to complete the Tyranny of the Sun...” Serana left her thought unfinished, lingering in the air like a shroud.

Unconsciously, Ronan reached for the jeweled case of the Elder Scroll.

Garan’s gaze flitted downwards. “Is that —?” he breathed.

“Yes,” Serana said simply. “And before you ask... if my father or the Disciple found it, the Tyranny of the Sun _would_ be within their grasp.”

Garan raised his hand. “Say no more. I do not need to know what is contained within the Scroll, nor do I have any desire to.”

“Odd sentiment for a vampire,” Finverior remarked. “Eternal night seems like something that your kind would want.”

“I will not lie; the idea is enticing,” Garan admitted. “But what Harkon and the rest of his fool sycophants want is an upset of the order of things. As much as we fear the sun, without it, this world will wither and die — and all of us, predator and prey, with it. It — it will be as if Coldharbour itself has come to Nirn.”

In the stunned silence following Garan’s grave words, Ronan’s breath stuck in his throat, still in shock. _Gods... how could such a thing happen?_

 _You speak as though it is fated to be,_ Nocturnal chided. 

Hope flared in his chest. _Then we_ will _stop Harkon?_

 _I never said that._ He could practically hear the smugness in Her voice. _The paths of fate are never set in stone, my Champion, and often do they wander._

Serana spoke then, her tone authoritative. “Finverior, take the Elder Scroll with you and guide Garan and Ronthil to Fort Dawnguard. Make sure they’re unharmed and that what they have to say is heard. Isran needs to muster what men he has and _quickly_ , before my father and the Disciple can make another move.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute — do I not have a say in this?” Finverior protested.

“Not unless you want the world to be plunged into eternal darkness, no.” Her voice was more bitter than Ronan had ever known it to be. “ _Please,_ Finverior. And get word to the High Queen if you can. You said she sent reinforcements to Isran in the past; tell her she needs to send more now.”

“The High Queen doesn’t take kindly to being commanded, you know,” Finverior said, shrugging. “But whatever you say, Lady Vamp — I’ll try.”

“What of you, Lady Serana?” Garan’s brow furrowed in worry. “Should your father suspect our defection and send others —”

“He doesn’t know where we’re going. He can’t follow me.” Serana’s face was determined. “And I won’t be alone.” Her eyes flitted over to Ronan.

 _I will keep you safe._ Surprised at his unspoken promise, Ronan simply nodded.

Nocturnal laughed. _Swear not, my Champion, lest you be forsworn._

 

“What of the Dominion presence in Anequina?” Kajsa paced, arms crossed over her chest.

“Largely unchanged, High Queen, but this one did observe the sparks of resistance.” Dar’Esti sprawled in Kajsa’s vacated seat, one leg swung over the chair’s arm as she leaned back over the other arm. “This one did hear whispers here and there, and witness some covert meetings, too, but nothing organized. Khajiit are still too much in fear.”

Kajsa sighed quietly. “And of Pelletine?”

“The same as when Dar’Esti did leave it — save for the prophets.”

“‘Prophets’?” Ulfric frowned darkly. “What mean you by that?”

“On the street corners of Torval, the sick and addled homeless do cry out dire predictions, High King.” Dar’Esti flicked one finger idly, the single claw flashing in the candlelight. “Khajiit wail of the Void Nights repeating, and worse than ever, being five years too late to a century. They cry of the sun _and_ the moons, all disappearing together.” She glanced up at them, seeing the looks of confusion on her employers’ faces. “What, do you not know of the Void Nights?”

Kajsa pursed her lips. “The name sounds familiar, but if I ever knew what the Void Nights were, I have since forgotten.”

“It seems that they have been forgotten by all but Khajiit,” Dar’Esti mused. “This one was not witness to the Void Nights, but this one’s elders told her stories of when Masser and Secunda vanished from the sky.”

“How could such a thing happen?” Ulfric demanded, disbelieving. 

“This one does not know how. What Dar’Esti _does_ know that the Thalmor claimed to restore the moons with long-lost magics — and that Khajiit heralded them as saviors and surrendered themselves to the _protection_ of Alinor.”

Shocked and perturbed by this new development, Kajsa glanced over at her husband, seeing her own expression mirrored in his, before turning back to Dar’Esti. “And you suspect that the Thalmor are behind these prophets?”

“Not ‘suspect,’ High Queen. _Know._ ” Dar’Esti’s tail lashed angrily. “This one apprehended and... _questioned_ one of the more outspoken prophets and he told Dar’Esti that an agent of the Thalmor had paid him to spread alarm.”

“Did this agent have a name?” Ulfric’s voice was cold and hard. 

“Why should it matter to you? He is lying at the bottom of the Topal Sea, weighed down with stones — and this one has his papers.” From the satchel at her side, Dar’Esti produced a thick leather folder, slightly water-stained and full of papers, and presented it to Kajsa. 

“What is contained herein?” Kajsa asked warily. 

“Answers, High Queen.” Dar’Esti’s yellow-green eyes were grave. “It lays the Dominion’s plans bare — but you may not like what you read.”

Opening the front of the folder, Kajsa’s gaze rested on the top sheet of parchment, and her heart stopped in her chest.

> **_OPERATION PRIESTHOOD  
>  _ **
> 
> **_Head of Operations:_ ** _Elenwen Saururiil_
> 
> **_Status:_ ** _In Execution, Highest Priority, By Order of the Dominion_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana take a dive in Darkfall Cave.


	34. Down and Down

Ronan couldn’t see. 

He wasn’t certain of whether his eyes were still adjusting from going from the brilliance of the sunset over the Reach’s mountains to the darkness of the cave, or whether the cave that Auriel’s Bow lay hidden in was just _that_ dark, but the fact remained that he had no idea of where he was supposed to go from here or what he was walking into. With one hand pressed to one of the cave’s walls, he inched his way along, testing each of his steps carefully before advancing.

“There’s no need to do that.” Serana’s soft voice came from behind him.

Ronan looked back over his shoulder; the only visible features of the vampire were her golden eyes, eerily hovering in the blackness. “Why —?” He stopped abruptly, feeling a little foolish at his realization. “You can still see in here, can’t you?”

“Not as well as I usually can, but yes.” Her hand slipped around his free one, grasping it securely. “I should be able to guide us through here. Just follow me.”

Nodding, Ronan squeezed her hand. Serana started forward, and he followed with a little less trepidation than before. Besides their muffled footsteps, all he heard was the faint sound of rushing water in the distance.

He decided to break the near-silence. “What do you know of Auriel’s Bow?”

“Not much. It shows up in history from time to time, but it’s a hard thing to track. As far as I know, though, it’s never been held by a vampire.” She laughed shortly. “That would be a new one.”

“We’ll find it; I know we will.” Ronan hoped he sounded confident enough. “Aside from us two and Finverior, no one else knows the location of the Bow. There’s no chance your father will be able to follow us.”

Serana sighed. “I hope you’re right.” Then: “It was strange... giving orders instead of receiving them.”

Ronan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Telling Garan what to do.” A pause. “I — I knew him before I was locked away, but... I never knew where his loyalties lay. For the longest time, I suspected that he was not under my father’s spell... and today confirmed it.”

“Perhaps he thinks you’d be a better leader of the Volkihar Clan than Harkon,” Ronan suggested. “That could explain why he came to us.”

“Perhaps,” Serana agreed, but uncertainly. “I — I’m not sure if I’m ready to take on the role... if my father’s death should come to pass, that is.”

Silence fell between them again, and the sound of rushing water grew nearer. Not for the first time since setting foot in the cave, Ronan desperately wished he could see where he was going.

“We’ll beat him,” he said, trying to break the eerie still. “We have a chance. We can do it.”

“And what of this ‘Disciple’? And what of Molag Bal?” Serana’s grip tightened anxiously. “Do you believe that we can beat them, too?”

Ronan hesitated. “Well, we can’t give up,” he finally said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Just because —” He stopped abruptly. “You hear that, right?”

“Yes.” Serana sounded slightly perturbed. “It sounds as though... as though we’re right over water.” She let go of his hand, and before Ronan had time to panic, a faint, flickering magelight was floating before them.

Serana sighed. “I wish I was more skilled in the School of Alteration.” She peered out. “Do you see this?”

Ronan squinted. A deep, dark chasm stretched before them, a lone rope bridge swinging over it and leading to a rocky outcropping on the other side.

“I can’t quite see if the tunnel continues on the other side,” Serana mused.

“Why would there be a bridge if it didn’t?” Ronan questioned.

Serana shrugged. “Fair enough.” Her hand wound around his again. “Let’s go, then. Watch your step.” She slowly started forward.

Ronan nodded, a knot forming in his stomach. Inching forward in step with Serana, he set one foot on the bridge, trying not to think about the tremor running through the wood underneath his step. Groping around with his other hand and squinting into the darkness some more, he finally found the rope railing and gripped it.

“This doesn’t need to be quick,” Serana said, seeming to sense his discomfort. “We just need to get across, that’s all.” With that, she began to take deliberate, measured steps over the bridge.

Swallowing his nervousness, Ronan trailed after her, keeping his eyes focused on the back of her head, illuminated by her feeble magelight. _Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look down._

He craned his head around, trying to see past her. To his relief, the rocky outcropping was much closer than it had looked before. _Oh, thank the Divines; we’re close._

Three things happened just then. Serana’s magelight winked out, and she let go of his hand and raised it to cast another one. Then there was a _snap_ of rope — and suddenly, the bridge collapsed underneath their feet, sending them both tumbling into the chasm.

Ronan let out an involuntary yell as he plummeted into the darkness with the wind whipping his hair, faster and faster. Then, just as suddenly, he hit water with a resounding _splash_ , and it flooded into his screaming mouth and filled his lungs even as it seeped into his leathers and dragged him down into its depths

Flailing with his arms, he tried to bring himself to the surface, coughing and sputtering. His head whipped around just in time to see a dim figure hit the water and his breath stuck in his throat.

“Serana!” he yelled, his voice coming out hoarse. “SERANA!”

The current abruptly jerked his body and with the roar of rushing water echoing in his ears, Ronan was underwater again, hurtling along the tunnels. He struggled against it, pulling himself back up above the surface and sucking in as deep breaths as he could, but his limbs seemed to grow heavier and heavier.

And then he was falling again as the water rushed over the edge with incredible force. Something hard and sharp struck his head as his body slammed down to the bottom of the waterfall, and blackness completely overtook him.

 

The first thing he became aware of was a cool hand on his forehead. Ronan stirred slightly, but did not open his eyes, his mind awash in confusion. _How am I still alive? What happened?_

 _Fate intervened._ Nocturnal sounded a little smug. _Your near-death has brought you a step closer to your goal, my Champion._

“Your friend will be well.” He dimly heard a low, stately voice, much deeper than Serana’s, at the same time that the hand was taken away. “He has sustained much, but he will recover.”

An audible sigh of relief. “Thank you. I — I think he’s awake now.”

Now Ronan opened his eyes, finding himself staring at the dim forms of stalactites hanging over him. _We’re still in the cave?_

“Ronan.” Serana’s face came into his field of view, drawn and worried. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he managed. “Where are we?” Putting his hands behind him, he tried to prop himself up, but his arms shook under his weight.

Grabbing his shoulders, Serana brought him upright. “The river carried us far into the cave before it finally dumped us out.” She touched his forehead, and he realized that there was a bandage there. “You were... a little battered, but otherwise, we weren’t injured terribly.”

“I’ve long suspected that the river of Darkfall Cave has a way of sifting through those that fall into its depths.” The low, stately voice from before sounded again as its owner came into view. “The worthy and unworthy alike are carried here, but only the former rise from the waters whole.”

The speaker was tall and pale, but lean-muscled, with skin almost translucent. An elegant, silvery cuirass with a deep red sash around it shielded his torso, but he carried no weapon. His hair was just as light as his skin, but his eyes were cloudy blue, seeming to roil and roll like the waters they had just emerged from.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” Ronan said hesitantly. “Who are you?”

“Knight-Paladin Gelebor.” He inclined his head. “I serve the Great Chantry of Auri-El.”

For the first time, Ronan noticed what lay behind Gelebor: a dome of white stone sunken into the water, crowned with a golden statue of a rising sun. In the darkness of the cave, it seemed to shine with a hidden light of its own.

“This cave is a temple to Auriel?” Serana asked, her face betraying some disbelief.

“Auriel, Auri-El, Alkosh, Akatosh... call Him what you will. There are many different names for the one who is worshipped here, the sovereign of the snow elves.”

“‘Snow elves’?” Ronan echoed, staring at Gelebor with the name ringing over and over again in his mind. “Are — are you a Falmer?”

The other grimaced slightly. “I prefer ‘snow elf.’ ‘Falmer’ usually holds a more negative connotation for travelers and historians alike. Those twisted creatures you call ‘Falmer,’ I call the Betrayed.” He waved his hand. “But it is no matter. You have come for — as you so name it — Auriel’s Bow, have you not?”

Startled, Ronan glanced over at Serana, and then back to Gelebor. “How did you know?”

Gelebor smiled ruefully. “For the thousands of years I’ve served as the Chantry’s sentinel, there hasn’t been a single visitor for any other reason. They request Auriel’s Bow, and I request their assistance. It’s been repeated so many times that I cannot imagine it any other way.” He sighed. “You are by no means the first ones to come in search of the Bow — but you may be the last if you accept my bargain.”

“Well, what kind of assistance do you need, then?” Ronan asked tentatively.

“I need you to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur... my brother.”

Ronan was abruptly taken aback. “Kill your brother?” he managed. “But why?”

“What kinship that was between us is now gone. I do not understand what he has become, but... he is no longer the brother I knew.” Gelebor’s face twisted in sorrow. “It was the Betrayed. They — they did _something_ to him.”

“What do you mean?” Serana’s expression was frozen in her shock.

“They swept into the Chantry without warning and began killing everyone without pause. I led a small group of paladins against them, but we were no match for their numbers — and by then, it was much too late.” Gelebor’s countenance turned to something far grimmer. “They had already stormed the Inner Sanctum — and I believe that was when they corrupted Vyrthur.”

Ronan frowned. “If you’re certain that the Falmer got to your brother, how do you even know he’s still alive?”

“I have seen him. But... something is wrong.” Gelebor paused, looking as if he didn’t quite know what to say. “He never looks as though he is under pain or duress. He just stands there and _watches_ , as though he is waiting for something.”

“You’ve been able to get into the Inner Sanctum, then?” Serana asked.

“I know how, but I myself cannot do it. Leaving the wayshrines unguarded would be a violation of my sacred duty as a Knight-Paladin of Auriel. And even if I were not, an assault on the Betrayed that guard the Inner Sanctum would only result in my death.”

“What are these ‘wayshrines’?” Ronan put in.

“You will see.” Turning around, Gelebor raised one gauntleted hand, and a ball of clear, pure golden light shone from his palm. “Let me show you.”

As Ronan and Serana watched, Gelebor pushed the strange magelight from between his fingers and through the dim air towards the statue on top of the stone dome. It connected, and the sun blazed bright for an instant. With a scraping of stone, the dome rose from the water, revealing an arched doorway leading into a small, squared-off chamber.

“So this is snow elf magic,” Serana breathed. “We’re probably the first people to see this in... who knows _how_ long.”

Ronan could only nod in wonder.

“This is a wayshrine.” Motioning them to follow him, Gelebor approached the newly emerged structure. “When the Chantry was still a place of enlightenment, these were used for meditation and for transport. Prelates of these shrines were charged with teaching the mantras of Auri-El to our Initiates.”

Serana pointed inside. “What are those for?”

Ronan followed her gaze. In the center of the wayshrine stood an empty stone basin; at its base sat a plain, long-handled jug made of some pale clay.

“Once the Initiate completed their mantras, they would dip a ceremonial ewer in the basin at the wayshrine’s center — as you both see here,” Gelebor explained. “Then, proceeding to the next wayshrine, they would repeat the process.”

“Lugging around a heavy pitcher of water. Marvelous,” Serana remarked dryly. “How long would they have to do that for?”

Gelebor ignored her pointed question. “Once their enlightenment was completed, the Initiate would bring the ewer to the Chantry’s Inner Sanctum. Pouring the ewer’s contents into the sacred basin of the Sanctum would allow them to enter for an audience with the Arch-Curate.”

“So that’s our way in?” Serana looked singularly unimpressed. “We need to do all that nonsense to get into the Inner Sanctum so we can kill your brother and claim Auriel’s Bow?”

“Yes,” Gelebor said simply. “It may sound like _nonsense_ to you, but if there was another way, I would have done it long ago. The only way to get to Vyrthur is by following in the Initiates’ footsteps and traveling from wayshrine to wayshrine just as they did.”

“How many of these wayshrines are there, exactly?” Ronan asked.

“There are five in total, spread far apart across the Chantry. The first lies at the end of Darkfall Passage; from there, you should be able to find the rest.” Gelebor paused. “I — I am sorry I cannot be of more help, but... I have my duties, as I am sure you two have as well.”

Ronan glanced over at Serana. “What do you think?”

She sighed. “Besides waiting for a miracle, I don’t see any other option.” To his surprise, Serana gave him a half-hearted smile. “Besides these ‘Falmer,’ how bad could it be, anyway?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana face more than they bargained for in the Forgotten Vale.


	35. Fire and Ice

“Perhaps I should not have spoken so soon,” Serana muttered, trudging up the snowy path. “Maybe it’s just me, but that phrase seems to bring new obstacles hurtling into our way.”

Ronan laughed tiredly as he hoisted the slowly slipping ewer back up under his arm. “No, I’ve noticed that as well.”

Though he had long lost count of the days that they’d been walking, Ronan knew that they’d covered a vast amount of terrain since their meeting with Gelebor. They’d made it out of what the Knight-Paladin had called “Darkfall Passage” just as night was falling over this strange, but beautiful valley that they’d found themselves in, and not a moment too soon — Falmer truly were everywhere in those tunnels, and the pressure of having to remain absolutely silent in order to avoid them had been starting to drive Ronan insane. Even though he knew that the creatures couldn’t see him, glimpsing their gaunt, white faces with needlelike teeth and patches of raw, red skin where their eyes would have been and hearing their rasping snarls echoing through the caves was enough to make him fear the dark.

But making it out of their territory had only brought him and Serana into something even stranger. The passage leading out into the valley was filled with odd luminescent flora — giant mushrooms and bell-shaped flowers — along with new fauna — small, skittish deer and lithe sabre cats with dark, speckled coats. It was like nothing Ronan had ever seen before, and despite his fears that the Falmer or some worse danger could be waiting for them up ahead, he couldn’t help but gaze upon these things with wonder.

After what seemed like an eternity, the two of them reached the first of the wayshrines — the Wayshrine of Illumination, according to the spectral Snow Elf priest that guarded it. Ronan, who’d had the ewer precariously tucked in his knapsack through Darkfall Passage, was the one to draw the water; as he did so, one of the wayshrine’s walls faded away, replaced with a shimmering portal.

And so they’d stepped through — and found themselves in the valley.

If the last half of the caves had been wondrous, the valley was truly awe-inspiring. Cradled between high, snowy mountain peaks with a light mist hanging just over them, a forest of scattered fir and birch trees flourished. As he and Serana followed the path, they glimpsed shattered stone columns and other rubble alongside it, pale even against the snow, indicating the past wealth and power of the Chantry that had once been in power here. But fortunately, the wayshrines remained, and now, as the sun rose, the ewer was filled with water not only from the Wayshrine of Illumination, but from those of Sight and Learning.

The weight of his burden brought Ronan back to the present. “Don’t you think it’s a little... _wrong_ that we’re helping Gelebor only to take the greatest treasure of his people from him?” he asked hesitantly.

Serana shrugged. “I don’t think he really cares about what you and I want Auriel’s Bow for; he seems too focused on the past for that. As long as we can deal with Vyrthur, we shouldn’t have any problems with getting him to hand it over.”

“I hope you’re right.” With some last, long strides, Ronan finally reached the top of the path. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he scanned over the scene before him: a frozen waterfall pouring down into a small mountain lake, covered with glossy, shimmering ice.

“The path continues on the other side,” Serana said, peering across. “We’re going to have to cross the lake if we want to get to it.” She gingerly pressed down on the ice with one foot. “It seems a little thin, so we’ll need to be careful.”

“You mean _I’ll_ need to be careful,” Ronan said, smiling slightly. “Unlike myself, you can deal with the cold just fine.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t feel anything if the ice breaks and I fall in, but I get your point.” Serana stepped onto the ice fully. “I’ll go first if that makes you feel safer.”

It took Ronan a second to realize that she was teasing him, and he flushed. “Alright.”

She smirked slightly. “Just follow my lead and it’ll be fine.” With that, she started across the ice, just skirting the edge of the cliff where the water would have ended.

Taking a deep breath, Ronan edged out onto the ice and started to inch after her, being very careful not to slip. _Don’t look over the edge. Don’t look at your feet. Just keep your eyes on her —_

Suddenly, a large shadow moved underneath the ice.

He stopped dead in his tracks. “Serana?”

She turned around, one eyebrow raised. “It’s a little late for second thoughts, now; we’re almost there.”

“I think we need to move a little faster, then.” Ronan caught up to her as fast as he could manage. “I thought I saw something —”

The words had just barely left his mouth when the ice splintered, freezing water and icy shards flying in every direction as a long-necked, horned creature with brilliant, flame-colored scales burst from the lake. With a beat of its massive wings, it soared up into the sky.

Ronan’s mouth dropped open in equal parts terror and awe. _A dragon, here?_

“Ronan, look out!”

Before he knew what was happening, Serana had grabbed his arm and dragged them both behind the ruins of a pillar impaled through the ice — just as the dragon turned in the air and opened its jaws, roaring out a gout of fire. It licked over the pillar, instantly heating the crumbling stone against Ronan’s back.

“We need to fight this thing!” he yelled. “We won’t have a chance of making it to the Chantry otherwise!”

“How?” Serana asked. “There’s no cover out here; we’ll be roasted alive!”

Seeing the fear in her eyes, Ronan hesitated, scanning the path on the other side of the lake. “There are more ruins and boulders that we can hide behind over there,” he said, trying to keep calm. “If we go now, we might —”

He was cut off again as the ice exploded again, scattering chunks of ice over the lake’s frozen surface as another dragon, nearly identical to the first, shot up from below and into the sky.

Two _of them?_ Now, his awe was beginning to wear off and the terror setting in.

“Just _run_!” Leaping to her feet, still gripping his hand, Serana began to run towards the other side of the lake, barely avoiding slipping into the expanse of water that the second dragon had emerged from. Ronan followed her, keeping up as best he could.

The sound of wingbeats echoing in the sky made him look up. By now, both dragons had wheeled around, gliding in the air over the frozen lake and heading straight towards them.

“Get down!” Reaching the shore, Ronan threw himself and Serana between what remained of a stone archway and some more rubble, concealing themselves amidst the wreckage just as the twin dragons passed overhead.

“Would you agree with me if I said that we can’t possibly fight both of them and win without dying?” Serana said wryly, but there was still some tenseness in her.

“Probably.” Ronan tried not to think about the fact that the two of them were crammed together in a very tight space, and that Serana was pressed directly against him — not that he disliked it, but dwelling on that fact seemed inappropriate considering their imminent deaths. “But if we go on ahead, who’s to say that they won’t come after us again?”

Serana sighed. “Well, there is that.” She shifted around, trying to get more comfortable. “ _Maybe_ we can take down _one_ of them and then run like Oblivion, but these dragons aren’t like Durnehviir. Even after spending who knows how long at the bottom of that lake, they don’t look any worse for wear for it —”

“Durnehviir!” Ronan interrupted, an idea coming to him. “That’s it! Serana, I could try to call on him to help us!”

Serana frowned. “Well, I suppose you could _try_ —” Hearing wingbeats overhead, she fell silent for a moment before continuing. “But I don’t know, Ronan. Didn’t you say that you didn’t think you had the ability to call him?”

“Well, Kajsa’s the Dragonborn and we’re related, so it might —” He shrugged as best he could. “I’m grasping at straws here; I have no idea if it’ll actually work.”

“It’s the best idea we’ve come up with; we better hope it works,” Serana mused dryly. “But how will you do it? Just — stand up and yell at the top of your lungs?”

Ronan almost laughed, but then remembered that the twin dragons were still nearby and might be able to hear them. “I’ll see if I can climb to higher ground first — as stealthily as I can, to avoid being seen. And — maybe you can distract them, somehow?”

Chewing her lip, Serana contemplated it for a moment. Then: “I’ll see if I can use Illusion magic to make us invisible. It’ll wear off quickly, but it’ll buy us a little more time.”

Ronan nodded. “Just... be careful,” he managed. “I know that you and fire don’t really —”

Serana shook her head, smiling slightly. “I’d worry about yourself more. But — thank you.”

Suddenly, Ronan felt her hand go to his shoulder, pulling herself up slightly, and magic thrummed through his body; his limbs suddenly felt like they weighed nothing at all. Then he froze as Serana’s lips, impossibly light and soft, brushed over his forehead.

“For luck.” She pulled away, but her smile was imprinted on his skin. “Now, go!”

Ronan jerked back to reality. Crawling out from underneath the stone, he navigated around the rubble and stood up unsteadily, his head still swimming. Looking down at his feet, the only trace of himself that he could see were his footprints in the snow.

A roar caught his attention, and his head jerked up to see the two dragons circling over the lake, diving low over the ice. Without any further delay, Ronan grabbed hold of two protruding rocks and started climbing up the side of the cliff, ignoring the sharp edges scraping against his exposed fingers.

Something whistled through the air, and Ronan craned his head back around to see a volley of ice spikes hurtling through the air, piercing the dragons’ stomachs. Letting out shrieks of anger, both of the dragons whipped their heads back and forth in a frenzy to try and catch sight of the now-invisible Serana.

 _Please stay safe, please stay —_ His foot slipped slightly and his heart nearly stopped before he realized that he wasn’t falling. Gritting his teeth, Ronan continued to hoist himself up. _I really need to practice my climbing. The High Rock Guild would laugh themselves to death if they were to see me now._

Finally, after what seemed like an age, he was scrambling up over the top of the cliff and picking himself up off his knees. The knees that were ever so faintly coming back into view.

Alarmed, he glanced over the side. He couldn’t see Serana, but he _could_ see her handiwork. Both dragons were starting to fatigue from the rips through their wings and the wounds in their sides — but they were angrier than ever.

 _I need to do this now, before Serana gets hurt._ Closing his eyes briefly and praying that it would work, Ronan sucked in a deep breath before shouting as loud as he could.

“DURNEHVIIR!”

Two things happened at once. Both dragons’ heads immediately swiveled to the source of the noise, slit-pupil eyes narrowing. And, the weight of his leathers and weapons slowly sinking down on him, Ronan felt his body come back into sight: directly under the beasts’ gazes.

Not knowing what else to do, he turned and ran, one hand going to the crossbow on his back. Sliding behind a snow-covered boulder, Ronan grabbed a bolt from the pouch on his belt and loaded it into the crossbow as fast as he could, and then braced himself for the onslaught.

“Hey!” Serana’s clear, challenging voice rang off the mountains. “Down here, you overgrown lizards!”

 _Oh, no._ Bolting out of cover, Ronan raced to the edge of the cliff, just in time to see the dragons turning as well, swooping down with jagged teeth bared and claws out.

Suddenly, a rush of icy wind rushed up from below, sinking into his skin and forming a thin coat of ice crystals over his leathers. Shielding his face, Ronan peered over the edge to see a full-blown blizzard streaming from Serana’s hands and towards the enraged dragons, freezing the torn membrane of their wings and rendering them nearly useless.

His hope instantly vanished as he noticed that Serana’s face was paler than he’d ever seen it before, and that as the magical energy flowing from her palms was beginning to falter, the wind dying down and the snow vanishing. Sensing her weakness, the dragons took up a shrieking, howling chorus of triumph, the ice that once coated their scales melting away.

“NO!” Ronan jolted forward — and found his leading foot supported by air.

All of the breath rushed out of his lungs as he pitched forward over the edge of the cliff. His back scraped against the frozen boulders, and his hands desperately scrabbled for something to hold onto, grasping protrusions for a split-second only to have his frozen fingers ripped away from the rocks with the force of his fall. Seeing the ground rushing up to meet him, Ronan finally gave up and let his body go limp just before he hit the snow.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a large, winged shadow overhead.

 

Warm liquid dribbled into his mouth, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue as he stirred. He groaned at the sensation, letting his jaw drop open and squeezing his eyes shut even tighter to try and cut out the light visible even from behind his eyelids.

 _In the future, my Champion, I would like you to avoid actively seeking out death,_ Nocturnal said primly, clearly disapproving. _It is foolish of you to play the hero._

Ronan mentally sighed. _You speak as if I’m doing this on purpose._

_Are you?_

_No. I think my life’s just dangerous._

He could feel the heat of Her displeasure radiating through his skull — or maybe that was just his head hurting from his fall. _I would also avoid being flippant if I were you._

“Ronan?” Serana’s voice echoed faintly in his ears. “Ronan, can you hear me?”

Finally recognizing the mildly unpleasant taste of the liquid, Ronan gratefully swallowed the healing potion with only a slight grimace, cracking his eyes open slightly. Serana was leaning over him, her dark hair wreathing her worried face.

“Serana?” His voice coming out raspy, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Serana...”

She sighed, relieved. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was kicked by a whole stable of horses.” Bringing his shoulders back, wincing at the soreness of his muscles, Ronan tried to push himself up to a sitting position. “I don’t think I broke anything though —”

 _Call it luck,_ Nocturnal suggested. _Or name it for what it is: me._

Placing her hands on his forearms, Serana dragged him upright and then pressed the red bottle into his hand. “Drink the rest of that, then.”

Curling his fingers around the cold glass (he noticed that the flesh torn from hanging onto the rocks had already knit back together, leaving the skin pink and shiny), Ronan downed the rest of the healing potion, making a disgusted face. His revulsion faded away once the warm liquid settled in his stomach and slowly spread through his limbs, alleviating some of the aching he felt.

“Thanks,” he managed, wiping his mouth. “So, uh... what happened after I fell? I think —” He frowned, trying to remember. “Did it work? Did Durnehviir come?”

Serana nodded. “I couldn’t believe it, but... there he was.” She made a motion through the air as if indicating the path of an arrow. “Maybe it was just me, but he really did seem stronger out of the Soul Cairn. The other dragons… well, they didn’t really stand a chance.”

Turning his head gingerly, Ronan followed her gaze down to the lake. The surface was no longer pristine; chunks of ice in varying sizes floated on the roiling water, and more than a few of them were spattered in blood.

“Where is Durnehviir now?” he asked, looking back.

“Gone back to the Soul Cairn. He wouldn’t leave until I assured him that you were going to be fine, though.” She smiled a little. “It wasn’t easy.”

Ronan laughed uncomfortably. “About that —”

“What is it with you and falling from high places?” Serana interrupted, crossing her arms. “What was going through your head when you launched yourself over the side?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly intentional.” He ran his hands through his hair, shaking the snow out of it, and then grabbed his fallen-back hood and did the same. “But I —” Dropping his hands, he caught her gaze, olive eyes to golden ones. “I didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

Her face softened slightly. “You do realize that I did that to protect _you_ , right?”

Ronan flushed. “Yes,” he said sheepishly.

Serana shook her head, but she was still smiling. Then she leaned forward and her lips pressed against his, bringing her hands up to cup his scarlet cheeks.

His mind took a moment to register that this was what was actually happening — right here, in the snow, by a lake where two dragons had just plunged to their deaths and he had nearly died as well. But as he kissed her back, Ronan thought that there was no better time.

Serana pulled away, the beginnings of a pale pink blush brushing her cheeks. “You know,” she finally said, “for once, I’m almost grateful for Finverior.”

Ronan blinked, confused. “Why — why do you say that? I mean,” he corrected, “I realize that you probably overheard our conversation in the inn, but —” He glanced at her, suspicion growing. “What did he say to you? Nothing too vulgar, I hope.”

“Finverior said that — that we cared for each other, but that... we weren’t acting on our feelings. At least, that was the not-so-vulgar version.” Serana tilted her head to one side, regarding him thoughtfully. “As incredible as it sounds, I think he might have been right.”

“I — I think so, too,” Ronan said, laughing a little. “I —”

Serana brought a finger up to his lips, silencing him. “I wasn’t done yet.” She paused. “You — you’ve done so much for me, even though you didn’t need to, and I’m grateful for that. But... you’re a good person. One of the best I’ve met. And — I’m glad that I can call you my friend.” She gave him a small smile. “Maybe even more than that.”

Ronan grinned back, feeling strangely light-headed. “Was that a proposition?”

“Perhaps.” Serana leaned her forehead up against his, her finger dropping from his mouth. “Especially since I now know that you feel the same way.”

Ronan nodded, and in the silence, the conversation with Finverior came back to him.

_“But how do you move on?”_

_“You find someone who makes you forget everything that happened to you before them.”_

Slowly, tentatively, he tilted his head forward, and as their mouths met, the unwelcome memories of the dark-haired woman hiding stolen papers began to fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Serana confront Arch-Curate Vyrthur.


	36. The Light of Day (Part I)

The Chantry of Auri-El was like no other structure that Ronan had ever seen. From the outside, with its white stone walls and arched doorways and sweeping stairways and the vast courtyard dominated by an elaborately carved statue of Auri-El, it looked like a palace from a fairy tale; on the inside, where time had taken its toll more, it resembled more of a mausoleum. Cold, grey, and shadowed, the halls of the Chantry were crumbling and scattered with Falmer frozen in ice, snarling in startling tableau. It was profoundly unsettling, and as he and Serana crept through the passageways, trying to make as little noise as possible and studiously avoiding getting too close to the frozen Falmer, Ronan would have sworn he felt their eyes on his back — _if they had eyes, anyway,_ he amended.

 _But at least they’re not coming after us,_ he reminded himself, squeezing through a particularly tight section where a wall of ice had formed over fallen pillars. _And after Darkfall Passage and the dragons and_ more _Falmer, we’re so close to Auriel’s Bow I can practically_ see _it._

Thinking of the battle against the dragons reminded him of the kisses he’d shared with Serana, and despite the cool air, he flushed hot. _That was... something I could never have anticipated. But nice._ Very _nice._ He glanced ahead of him to see Serana sliding herself between one of the fallen pillars and more rubble, and he smiled a little. _Serana is... gods, how do I even describe her? How I feel about her?_

An image of Jolaine and her sensual smile resurfaced in his mind and Ronan instinctively pushed it away. _I’m going to have to tell Serana about her at some point — or more than what she heard from my conversation with Finverior, anyway._ He swallowed. _How hard could it be? She already knows about my father and my family, and I know so much about her —_

 _Eyes sharp, Ronan,_ Nocturnal chided. _Look to your little vampire._

Snapping out of his thoughts, Ronan realized that the two of them had emerged into an open, empty hall. The original stone walls, covered with sheets of ice forming dangerously sharp spikes, were barely visible, and even the floor was covered with a sheen of frost. More frozen Falmer lined the length of the hall, like grotesque courtiers, with their unseeing eyes all turned to the raised dais at the end and the throne upon it — and the one sitting in it.

“Did you really come here expecting to claim Auriel’s Bow?” Arch-Curate Vyrthur stood, a sneer twisting his angular features. “You’ve done _exactly_ as I predicted, and brought your fetching companion to me.”

Serana froze mid-step. “Is he — is he talking about _me_?” she murmured, shocked.

Ronan had no answer for her; he merely stared. _How did Vyrthur know —?_

“Which, I’m... _sorry_ to say,” Vyrthur continued, sounding anything but remorseful, “means your usefulness, _human_ , is at an end!” He thrust one hand up into the air, and a sharp, shuddering _crack_ echoed from above.

“Ronan, watch out!” Grabbing him by the arm, Serana yanked him back. “He’s pulling down the —”

No sooner had she spoke than a massive chunk of ice crashed down where they had been standing only seconds before. Desperately, Ronan glanced back towards where they had entered, only to see more ice spilling down over it and blocking the entrance.

A hiss caught his attention, and he whipped around to see one of the Falmer break free of its frozen prison. Pulling out both daggers, Ronan thrust one of them forward, embedding the blade in the creature’s chest. No sooner had the Falmer fallen to the floor than gargling shrieks rung out around him, and he realized with dread that the other Falmer had woken as well.

“Stay close!” Serana, at his back, fired off a chain of lightning, electrocuting two of the Falmer closest to her. “We can fight them off!”

On the dais, sheltered behind spikes of ice, Vyrthur laughed mockingly. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you.” Unsheathing her own dagger, Serana stabbed another Falmer and then raised its corpse with a deft flick of her fingers. “Your life ends here!”

“Child, my life ended long before you were born.” Raising his hand again, obscured by a dark void, Vyrthur flung it down on the ground before him; the scattered, broken ice flew together to form a monstrous frost atronach. “Yours, on the other hand, ends _now!_ ”

Glancing up from slaying another Falmer with a quick slash of his daggers, Ronan saw the atronach just in time to pull Serana out of the way. The creature swung one of its huge, misshapen fists, sending ice and pieces of the floor everywhere.

Hurriedly shoving his daggers in his belt, Ronan pulled out his crossbow and loaded a bolt: no longer fumbling, but steady and sure. He pulled the trigger, and the bolt struck the atronach where one of its eyes would have been. It reeled back, but not by much.

Hissing in rage, one of the Falmer rushed at them. Without thinking, Ronan swung the crossbow, hitting the creature squarely in the ribs and stunning it. Serana immediately followed with an ice spike through its chest.

Regaining composure, the frost atronach began to lumber toward them, the ground shaking with its steps. Resurrecting the Falmer, Serana directed it towards the atronach before striking it with another chain of lightning; like before, the atronach was barely moved before it swatted the undead Falmer out of the way.

“It’s too powerful,” Ronan said, despairing. “We need to find some other way —”

“How about _this?_ ” Serana raised her hands; fireballs crackled and burned over her palms, already starting to become pink and raw from the heat.

“Be careful!” Ronan pleaded. “You’ll get hurt!”

“Well, we’ll be worse than ‘hurt’ if this doesn’t work.” With that, she lobbed both of them at the frost atronach, striking it in the chest. Groaning out a wordless roar, the atronach stumbled, its frozen body beginning to melt.

Snatching a magicka potion out of her satchel and downing the whole thing with a grim, determined look on her face, Serana summoned more fire. This time, she pushed it out, sending a wall of flame rushing towards the atronach and the advancing Falmer.

Ronan shielded his face from the intense heat, but he could still hear the shrieking echoing shrilly off the walls, now freed from the sheets of ice, as the Falmer burned and died. When the fire cleared, all that was left was scorched stone and blackened, shriveled bodies; the frost atronach was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling his eyes away from the gruesome scene, he turned to Serana. Her entire body was shaking, and the pale skin on her hands was red and raw, but her eyes glowed with triumph.

“No!” Vyrthur’s savage cry startled him. “I will not let you ruin centuries of preparation!” He raised his hands more one time and a nimbus of white light swirled around him, pulling the icicles around him inward with their wicked points out.

And then he released it.

The force ripped through the hall, and Ronan, blinded by the intensity of the light, dropped to the ground in an attempt to avoid the ice spikes shooting outward. He heard stone and ice cracking around him, and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting to be buried in rubble.

Five seconds. Then ten. And then after what felt like an eternity, a cool, but blistered hand gripped his own.

“Are you all right?” His still-ringing ears struggled to pick out Serana’s desperate voice. “Come on, Ronan, you can do this; get _up_.”

Preparing to wince, Ronan opened his eyes cautiously. Save for Vyrthur’s throne, the hall’s back wall had been completely blown away, leaving nothing but chunks of stone and ice in the explosion’s wake. Strangely enough, Ronan had never been quite so happy to see a blue, cloudless sky in his life.

“Where is he?” he managed, struggling to his feet. “Did Vyrthur escape?”

“I think he’s on the balcony.” Serana helped him up. “Come on!”

Nodding, Ronan immediately started forward, racing up the stairs and into the light. The balcony was largely plain, of the same construction as the rest of the Chantry, but a sunken wayshrine was at its center, set before another, smaller balcony led up to by twin staircases.

Serana ran past him and up the stairs again, stopping once she reached the top. Catching up, Ronan realized why: Vyrthur stood there, both hands on the railing, staring out over the mountain peaks with his face turned from them.

“This has gone on long enough.” Ronan almost didn’t recognize Serana’s voice, grown sure and commanding. “Give us the bow, Vyrthur!”

“How dare you make demands of me,” Vyrthur spat, hardly deigning to turn. “I was the Arch-Curate of Auri-El, girl. I was made in the form of a god!”

“Until the ‘Betrayed’ corrupted you,” Serana interrupted with an impatient sigh. “Yes, we’ve heard this sad story.”

Vyrthur started laughing, low and bitter. “Gelebor is an easily manipulated fool.” _Now,_ he turned around. “Look into my eyes, _Serana_ , and tell me what I am.”

Ronan took a half-step back, startled. Vyrthur’s eyes were golden.

“You — you’re a vampire?” Serana asked, aghast. “But... Auri-El... he didn’t protect you?”

“The moment I was... _infested_ by one of my own Initiates, Auri-El turned his back on me,” Vyrthur snarled. “But even though I’d fallen from grace, I swore I’d have my revenge on him, no matter what the cost.”

“You wanted to take revenge on a _god_?” Ronan questioned, eyebrows raising in disbelief.

“Auri-El himself may have been beyond my reach, but his influence on our world was not.” Vyrthur’s eyes gleamed, scheming. “All I needed would be his bow, tainted with the blood of a vampire.”

The implications of his words hit Serana. “It was you!” she exclaimed, shocked. “You — _you_ created that prophecy?”

“Imperfect, but effective enough that some fool was bound to find it.” Vyrthur stepped closer. “But it lacked the final ingredient: the blood of a pure-blooded vampire. The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour.” He smiled unpleasantly at Serana. “And that is where _you_ come in.”

“I. Don’t. Think. So.” The other’s voice came out as cold as ice.

Before Ronan could even react, Serana had closed the space between her and her enemy, gripping Vyrthur by the neck with both hands. Realizing too late what was happening, Vyrthur struggled against her, but Serana lifted him up off the balcony, leaving his feet kicking uselessly in the air.

“I can’t believe it... you were waiting all this time for someone with my blood to come along.” Serana’s face twisted in anger. “Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I intend on keeping it. Your prophecy will _never_ come true!”

“Foolish girl,” Vyrthur rasped. “I’ll darken the skies with your blood —!”

With one smooth motion, Serana twisted his neck with a sickening _crack_ and flung Vyrthur to the ground. He lay motionless, his golden eyes staring blankly upwards.

Ronan stood still, with no idea what to do. He wet his lips. “Are — are you all right?” He winced, realizing that it was probably a foolish question to ask.

“Not especially.” All the rage had drained out of her voice.

Hearing the familiar sound of stone scraping against stone, Ronan turned around to see the dome of the sunken wayshrine rising. Hurrying back down the steps, he was astonished to see Gelebor emerge from the doorway of the wayshrine.

“So: the deed is done.” Gelebor appeared much more haggard and melancholic in the daylight. “The restoration of this wayshrine means that Vyrthur must be dead and that the Betrayed no longer have control over him.”

“The Betrayed weren’t to blame.” Serana stepped down beside Ronan, her face grave. “He was a vampire. Your brother was controlling them, not the other way around.”

“A vampire?” Gelebor frowned for a moment, but his expression slackened. “That... would explain much.” He sighed. “It brings me joy that the Betrayed weren’t to blame for what happened here, but my brother...”

“What makes you say that about the Fal — the Betrayed?” Ronan asked, confused.

“Because it means that there’s still hope that they might shed their hatred one day and learn to believe in Auri-El once again. Despite the loss of my brother, it’s been a long time since I felt hope, and it’s been long overdue.” He inclined his head towards both of them. “My thanks, to both of you.”

“You’re welcome,” Ronan said.

Serana crossed her arms. “What happens now?”

“Now? You risked everything to get Auriel’s Bow, and you’ve restored the Chantry while doing so. There is nothing I can do to fully repay you, but... I cannot think of two more deserving champions to carry the Bow.” Gelebor turned slightly, indicating the wayshrine behind him.

Following his gaze, Ronan saw it: a gleaming golden bow, gracefully curved and shining with an inner light, hovering over the wayshrine basin.

Auriel’s Bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ The Dawnguard and its allies assemble.


	37. The Light of Day (Part II)

“It’s... not as shiny as I was expecting,” Serana mused, eying Auriel’s Bow critically. She balanced it in her hands, her skin made even paler against the radiant gold glinting in the dying sunlight. “Still, it’s beautiful.”

Ronan nodded in agreement. “I’d like to try it out before I pass judgment.” He took it from Serana and carefully re-wrapped it; the weapon tended to attract attention, but less so when it was covered. “But yes, it is.”

A week had passed since they claimed Auriel’s Bow, and yet, it seemed like an eternity. For him, time seemed to move slowly while the rest of the world hurtled on, and Ronan wasn’t quite sure why. He was tempted to attribute it to their time spent in Darkfall Passage and the Forgotten Vale — both of which took nearly three days to navigate out of and back aboveground to Skyrim — coupled with exhaustion from the subsequent journey to Solitude, then taking a carriage to Riften, and now, walking to Fort Dawnguard, but a part of him knew that there was more to it than that.

_What’s between Serana and I... has changed. And that has made all the difference._

Serana’s gaze still lingered on the shrouded bow.  “Would that be before or after we face my father?” she asked quietly.

Ronan swallowed. “You’ve made up your mind, then.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” Her hands curled around each other. “It’s the only way I can think of to stop this. If we don’t do this now... who knows what he might do? If he found us and got his hands on the Bow —”

“Do you think he’ll know how to use it?” Ronan asked. “How to... _taint_ it?”

“Harkon might know already, and if he doesn’t now, he’ll probably find out.” Serana’s face was melancholy. “I know it’s all hypothetical, but... I don’t want to keep running for the rest of my life. I _have_ to face him, Ronan.”

Ronan was silent for a moment. Then: “It’s possible that we’ll have to kill him.” _Not “possible.” Certain._

“I know.” Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white. “I’ve — I’ve _tried_ to make my peace with it. But this has to end somewhere.”

“I imagine this must be hard for you,” Ronan said, not knowing what else to say.

Serana sighed heavily. “He might be a monster, but... he’s still my father. It’s just... _impossible_ to see that now.” Her hands relaxed, but the tension in her didn’t vanish. “I still remember a mortal man who called me his princess and told me bedtime stories when I couldn’t fall asleep.” She smiled sadly. “I had his eyes. Green, like emeralds.”

Ronan remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Serana finally said. “Here I am, going on about my father, when — when you don’t have any memories of yours.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he commented wryly, but he couldn’t quite make his tone light enough. “Still, both of our family situations are... not enviable.”

Serana laughed a little. “That’s a mild way to put it.” She took his hand and squeezed it slightly. “I appreciate your support, Ronan, but... just try to focus on what you have to do, and I’ll worry about me.”

Ronan smiled, leaning over and placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. “All right.”

 _Do not make promises you cannot keep, my Champion,_ Nocturnal chided. _Nothing can keep you from worrying over your precious little Daughter of Coldharbour, and do not try to convince yourself otherwise._

Ronan sighed internally. _Some encouragement would be nice._

_You always have my support._

The outer walls of Fort Dawnguard loomed up ahead of them; unlike last time, all of the quarried stone forming it was in place and the portcullis was lowered. It was impossible to see the walls, but through the portcullis’ iron grille, Ronan could see much of the same hustle and bustle visible last time, but this time, the makeshift wooden fortifications were completely gone.

“Hold there!” someone shouted down from the wall walk; it sounded familiar, but Ronan couldn’t see who it was. “State your name and business with the Dawnguard.”

Ronan sighed. _Looks like Isran’s stepping up security._ “Ronan. Ronan Sorleigh, here with — with what Isran’s been looking for.” Unwrapping Auriel’s Bow slightly, he raised the weapon up over his head for whoever was on guard to see.

The guard leaned over the wall and into view; the warhammer handle protruding from behind his shoulder confirmed Ronan’s suspicion that it was Ranmir. Even at this distance, Ronan could see the awe on his face at the sight of the Bow, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that Ranmir was trying to figure out where he remembered him from.

“Back just in time,” Ranmir finally said. “Isran’s been waiting on you.” He waved a hand to more guards down the wall walk. “Open the gates!”

Ronan frowned. “What does Isran want with me?”

Ranmir snorted. “Do you think he tells me? Either way, I’d hurry if I were you. Last I checked, he was with the High Queen, and neither of them looked to be in good moods.”

 

Kajsa was indeed with Isran when Ronan entered Isran’s office. Clad in ebony armor that seemed to drink up the torchlight, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a grim look in her eyes. Both she and Isran stopped their hushed conversation and glanced over when Ronan stepped in, waiting expectantly for him to speak.

Ronan tried to search her face — some similarity that would prove them related — but he couldn’t find any. _We are so different... worlds apart._

“Ranmir told me you were here,” he finally said. “I see Finverior succeeded in getting in touch with you.”

Kajsa shrugged. “Not precisely. My men and I had already arrived by the time Finverior and the two vampires returned to Fort Dawnguard.”

Ronan glanced at Isran questioningly.

“No need to worry about the blood-suckers; they’re not dead or even harmed,” Isran said gruffly. “Same goes for the queen’s agent.”

“Thank you for that courtesy.” Kajsa’s tone was decidedly frosty. “Regardless of personal foibles, we need every asset we can get, seeing as that our goals are aligned.”

Ronan frowned. “The vampires, you mean?”

“Yes, but I’m more concerned about the Thalmor agent in their ranks.”

“A Thalmor vampire?” Ronan echoed, shocked. _Could the Disciple be...?_

“Now you understand why I’m here,” Kajsa said grimly. “There’s more to my being here than that, but we will discuss that more later.” Her dark eyes bored into him.

In his stunned state, all that Ronan could do was nod. “What’s our plan, then?”

“We take the fight to Castle Volkihar,” Isran cut in. “With the Dawnguard’s and the queen’s combined forces, we have more than enough to put an end to those damned things. Unless,” he added, narrowing his eyes at the wrapped bundle in Ronan’s hands, “you have another asset you’d like to add to that effort.”

“I do.” Unwinding the cloth around Auriel’s Bow, Ronan showed them the weapon. “Dexion’s ritual worked. Serana and I were able to read the Scroll and follow the trail to the bow.”

For the first time since Ronan had met him, Isran almost looked awed. “Stendarr’s mercy... I’d heard it described in tales, but to actually see it in all its glory...” His voice trailed off and he reached out, fingers brushing over the gleaming surface of the bow. “Good craftsmanship, but... a little too shiny to be practical.”

“Legendary weapons are rarely ‘practical,’” Kajsa said wryly. “And a bow associated with a god of sun can hardly be made of lead.”

Isran snorted, turning to address Ronan. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you could do it, Sorleigh. But you’ve proven me wrong this time around.” Despite his gruff tone, an approving sort of smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Now we’re truly ready to stop those monsters.”

Ronan nodded again, and in the silence, up from below, he heard the sounds of boots shuffling and stamping across the floor and the low murmur of a hundred different voices all whispering amongst themselves.

“Isran.” They all turned to see Durak standing in the doorway, fully clad in Dawnguard armor with a helm under his arm. “The Dawnguard and the queen’s forces are ready to leave whenever you are.”

“That moment has come, my friend.” Clapping Durak on the back, Isran paused on his way out the door and turned back, his features once again clouded with suspicion. “Sorleigh, what of your vampire? Can she be trusted to lift a blade against her own kind — or is her usefulness at an end?”

Ronan barely swallowed the anger welling up in him. “Serana’s just as committed to this fight as you are,” he answered. “She’s proven herself again and again. You _can_ trust her, Isran.”

Isran scrutinized him for a moment. Then: “Trusting a turncoat bloodsucker... I never thought I’d see the day.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Very well. She can come.” With that, he turned around and started towards the balcony railing just as Ronan realized that for once, Isran hadn’t used ‘it’ to refer to Serana.

Kajsa brushed past him, and Ronan shook himself out of his surprise to follow suit and join her and Isran at the railing. Looking down at the main hall of Fort Dawnguard below, he saw a varied sea of people filling the space: a motley mix of men and women clad in the browns of Dawnguard armor and Stormcloak blue and bronze. At the very back, near the entrance, Ronan caught sight of a smaller, pale-skinned figure in black and red leather armor, and he smiled slightly.

“My brothers in arms!” Isran’s voice boomed out. “For too long, we’ve allowed these vampires to poison the night and kill our people — but we finally have the means to strike back! Not only do we have soldiers of the crown, we have Auriel’s Bow.” He motioned to Ronan.

Sensing a cue, Ronan held up the still unwrapped bow for all to see. The reaction that got, from gasps to murmurs of amazement, was palpable even from this great height.

“The gods themselves have favored us and we must answer with action!” Isran continued, pounding his fist against the railing. “The time has come to finally put an end to these vampires and their unholy prophecy! We will march on their lair and destroy those wretched abominations so they can no longer corrupt our world!” He paused, allowing the impact of his words to sink in. “This is our fight — and this is our fate! Who’s with me?”

The walls of Fort Dawnguard echoed with shouts and cheers: all the answer Isran needed.

Ronan swallowed. _This is it. The end is at hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan and Kajsa have another uncomfortable conversation.


	38. Past, Present, Future

“I don’t even know where to start with this.” Kajsa idly ran one finger around the rim of her goblet, her eyes dark. “It seems... too _vast_ , too complex to possibly explain or comprehend.”

“Are you speaking of why you and your forces are with the Dawnguard?” Ronan asked hesitantly. “About the Thalmor agent with Harkon?” _Or about the secret I’m about to tell you?_

He could almost hear Nocturnal raising an eyebrow. _Kajsa does not have the ability to read your mind, My Champion._ Her tone was light, but there was a sort of mocking to it. _She will know nothing of her half-brother until you reveal yourself as such._

“Yes.” Kajsa leaned back in her chair; out of her armor and without any trappings of her station, she looked much too weary for a woman as young as her. “Isran didn’t necessarily need to know of it — better to concern him with matters of vampires — but that does not hold for you.”

The joint forces of the Dawnguard and the Stormcloaks Kajsa had brought with her from Windhelm had moved quickly; in a matter of days, the legion had gone from the southernmost corner of the Rift to the plains of Whiterun, stopping only at night to set up camp and then packing up at first light to keep going. Ronan had calculated that if they kept pushing on at this rate — and indeed, it looked like their forces would — they would be at Castle Volkihar in very short order.

“Why?” Ronan asked, confused. “If there’s a threat to the Dawnguard from the Thalmor, Isran should have known earlier.” _Especially if the agent is the Disciple..._

“Because the Dominion’s threat reaches farther than just Skyrim.” Kajsa took a sip of her wine. “You remember Valmir?”

A distant memory of the Thalmor agent posing as a scholar resurfaced, and Ronan nodded. _Gods... how long was that ago? How different my life was then..._

“He wasn’t the only one who the Thalmor had charged with finding artifacts. And they weren’t only looking for these artifacts in Skyrim.” Reaching over to the table beside her, Kajsa retrieved a folder bulging with papers. Opening it on her lap, she pulled out the top sheet of paper and passed it over to him. “And they most certainly weren’t looking for them out of scholarly curiosity.”

Ronan examined the paper, inhaling sharply at the words.

> **_Operation Priesthood_ **
> 
> **_Head of Operations:_ ** _Elenwen Saururiil_
> 
> **_Status:_ ** _In Execution, Highest Priority, By Order of the Dominion_

“Now you see what I mean,” Kajsa remarked dryly. “At least I know exactly _how_ Elenwen’s in the Dominion’s good graces again — but it’s certainly not pleasant news to hear.”

“No. No, it isn’t,” Ronan agreed, handing back the paper. “Do you know more about this ‘Operation Priesthood’?”

“Not at first. It kept coming up — in dossiers, in half-destroyed reports, in testimonies — but we were never quite sure of what it was until...” Kajsa gestured to the folder of papers on her lap. “This is what my spy was able to get to me. The picture it paints is... _clear_ , to say the least.”

Ronan swallowed. “And — what would that be, exactly?” he questioned, fidgeting with his own goblet, unsure if he actually wanted to know or not.

Kajsa put her wine down, and then folded her hands over the papers, her expression grim. “From what my sources have told me, Operation Priesthood consists of three phases. Some of the actions of the first phase we’ve encountered multiple times: the acquisition of rare artifacts. This was a massive effort, requiring hundreds of agents spread throughout Tamriel, searching for the most powerful objects from history and lore that they could find. But an aspect of the first phase that we _couldn’t_ see was going on in Elsweyr, with the spreading of rumors by Thalmor spies masquerading as ‘prophets,’ all warning of the return of the Void Nights.”

Ronan had raised his goblet to his lips for a sip of wine, but he froze. “The Void Nights?” he repeated. “Masser and Secunda vanishing from the sky until the Dominion claimed that they’d been restored through their power?” A horrifying thought dawned on him. “The prophecy.”

“Exactly,” Kajsa said flatly. “The second phase involved an alliance with the Volkihar vampires and placing an agent in their ranks. Unfortunately, the documents I have don’t mention the agent’s name, but whoever they are, they were a vampire before their new assignment and an incredibly skilled mage as well. This agent’s task was to aid in Harkon’s attempts to bring the Tyranny of the Sun to fruition — which also involved finding another powerful artifact, Auriel’s Bow, for the Dominion.”

“And then they’d plunge the world into darkness, just as they and the Scrolls predicted,” Ronan finished, his voice barely above a whisper. “If they snuffed out the sun, do you suppose —?”

“— that they could do to the same to the moons as well? I don’t know, but something tells me that the Dominion will try: just to see if they can.” Her tone was dripping with disgust.

“What’s the third phase?” Ronan asked, heart quailing in his chest.

Kajsa was silent for a moment. Then: “The Dominion have no intention of releasing their hold on Tamriel, especially not when it’s caught in an eternal night. All that’s left for them to do is to take up the artifacts and bestow them on their leaders and highest-ranking operatives — and let them conquer.” Her face was like stone, but there was barely-concealed anger in her eyes. “And Tamriel would be almost helpless to resist.”

Ronan could barely breathe. “That’s — that’s —” He struggled with his words. “Almost... _unbelievable._ Audacious, cunning... and completely monstrous.”

“You don’t have the same experience with the Thalmor that I do.” Kajsa’s voice was cold. “They have _always_ thought themselves to be gods — and Operation Priesthood just proves their ambitions.”

“No, I believe you.” Ronan slumped back in his chair. “It’s just... a lot to take in.”

Kajsa smiled humorlessly. “You should have seen my husband. Ulfric was beyond rage when he read the contents of this folder.”

Ronan frowned suddenly as a thought occurred to him. “I — I don’t mean to insult you or pry in any way, but — does your husband know you’re here?” he asked cautiously.

Kajsa arched an eyebrow. “Oh, he’s noticed by now. I would be very disappointed in him if he didn’t.” She reached for her wine again and drank. “My safety concerns my husband greatly, almost as much as that of Skyrim’s. Unfortunately, his... _territorial_ instincts tend to cloud his judgment on occasion.”

“So you just left?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Her tone was razor-sharp.

“And you’re not concerned about your own safety at all?” Ronan asked quietly. “You said it yourself that the Dominion is your worst enemy. And you — you’re the Dragonborn, the High Queen of Skyrim. You have a husband and a son. Aren’t you worried about what would happen if you fell into the Thalmor’s hands?”

Kajsa almost flinched, her face pained, but her gaze remained steely. “You sound like you’re giving me reasons to cower in Windhelm. But to me, that is every reason _not_ to.

“I was a mercenary once: a thief, an assassin, a sellsword. I did what I did because of coin and what I wanted.” Her countenance softened a little, almost growing melancholy. “I’ve only learned very recently that it’s a different thing to fight for people you love — your friends, your family, your partner — and it is infinitely more precious than gold.”

Unable to respond, Ronan simply nodded.

 _If you truly wish to enlighten her as to her family tree, you cannot stay silent forever, my Champion,_ Nocturnal purred. _Go on. Tell your..._ half-sister _of the blood you share._

Ronan exhaled heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, Nocturnal was right.

“Kajsa,” he started uncertainly, fingers tightening around his wine glass, “I — I have something to tell you.”

Kajsa pursed her lips slightly. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” she said dryly.

Ronan tried to laugh, but the sound came out slightly strangled. He cleared his throat, trying to think of how to begin. “I took you up on your suggestion and — and I visited Riftweald Manor,” he said finally.

“Really.” Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were dark. “Did you find anything?”

“Not at first. I think the Guild had cleared it out long ago — but you already knew that, didn’t you?” His last sentence came out more accusing than he meant it.

Kajsa shrugged. “Think what you would like. I told you the Guild hadn’t touched it and that was the truth — not much to salvage.” She took a last sip of her wine before setting aside her empty goblet. “But I’m guessing you found something of worthy note.”

Ronan took in a breath. “A journal of sorts, stuffed inside a mattress. Mercer didn’t write about much beyond the affairs of the Guild, but — he mentioned your mother. Rozenna.” He paused, trying to gauge her reaction.

It was a shock to him to see the grief laid bare on Kajsa’s normally stoic face. “My – my mother?” she repeated numbly. “He wrote about her? About her murder?”

Ronan shook his head slightly. “Not about that, no, but there _was_ evidence of pages being ripped out, so... he may have at some point, but I couldn’t find them.” His voice trailed off. “But... after that, Mercer mentions taking care of a loose end. The adoption of a child in Honorhall by his own father in Daggerfall. _My_ adoption.” He stopped, unconsciously lowering his eyes from hers.

“Go on.” Kajsa’s voice sounded hoarser than usual.

Inhaling deeply, Ronan forced himself to meet her gaze again. _This is it. This is when I tell her._ “When Mercer wrote about that... he said that he owed Rozenna that much.”

The realization came as the color slowly drained from Kajsa’s face. “My — your — _our_ mother —” She was stumbling over her words in her distress. “Rozenna... and _Mercer_?” Now the disgust was evident in her tone. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Ronan said, all too aware of how helpless he sounded. “I don’t know how they first met. I don’t know why he killed her. I don’t know anything beyond the fact that — that Rozenna was my mother and that Mercer put me in Honorhall while she was still alive.” He sighed. “And then when she was dead, he finally got me out.”

Kajsa swallowed hard, her eyes hollow. Then: “Leave me.” Her voice was sharp again, but it didn’t have the edge he was used to hearing. “I — I need to think on this.”

Ronan didn’t need to be told twice. Rising from his chair, he made for the opening of the tent and walked out. He’d barely left before he heard the skittering sound of a wine bottle being hurled to the ground, accompanied by muttered curses that faded into hitches of breath.

 

Serana had been sitting quietly, hands folded in her lap and eyes wide and grave, but as Ronan finally finished recounting his conversation with Kajsa, she spoke up. “I’m surprised you told her about your mother,” she commented. “With the assault on Castle Volkihar and this ‘Operation Priesthood,’ it would seem to me that the High Queen has enough to worry about right now.”

Ronan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just — I couldn’t think of any better time to do it,” he said lamely. “I didn’t think it through that well, and... it went about as well as I expected.” He paused. “Actually, it went better, seeing as I’m still alive.”

Serana smiled sympathetically. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You made the best of a bad situation.” Suddenly, she frowned. “Did you tell her about Rozenna being in the Soul Cairn?”

“No. Gods, no.” Ronan sat down heavily next to her on the cot. “I think that would have just made it worse — and a lot more difficult to explain.”

Serana nodded. “Good point.” She scrutinized him for a moment. Then: “Are you ready?”

Ronan looked over at her. “Ready for what? Storming the castle and facing Harkon? Thwarting the Dominion’s plan?”

“All of those, I suppose.” Serana’s eyes suddenly seemed very far away. “It’s strange... I’ve mentally prepared myself for what we’re up against, but... it’s what comes _after_ that frightens me more.” She laughed dryly. “Assuming we survive to see an ‘after.’”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know what you want to do with your life?”

Serana smirked slightly. “And you do?”

Ronan’s frown deepened. Now that she mentioned it, his future looked highly uncertain. _Leaving Skyrim still isn’t an option, and at this rate, neither is joining the Guild. So what then? The Dawnguard — assuming Isran will take me? Windhelm? Or..._

“No, I don’t,” he finally said. “But... if there was any possibility I could stay with you...” His voice trailed off as a flush crept into his cheeks.

Serana’s smirk faded into a genuine smile: small and tentative, but a smile all the same. “I think I’d like that,” she said, placing one of her hands over his.

“You — you mean that?” he asked, suddenly and irrationally worried. “You don’t have a problem with me or my past or —”

Serana sighed. “Ronan, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like you’re the worst person in the world.” Leaning over, she gently kissed his forehead. “Trust me when I say you’re about as far removed from that as someone could ever get.”

“And Jolaine?” Saying her name always made him feel like a stone was slipping off his tongue. “You — you deserve to know the whole truth about her. She’s the reason I’m in Skyrim —”

“One day, maybe,” Serana said firmly, her other hand going to his cheek. “But I hope you know that you don’t need to justify yourself to me. You’re a good man, maybe even one of the best I’ve met.” She paused. “I — I trust you, Ronan. I trust you completely.”

A lump rising in his throat, Ronan wrapped his arms around her and held her close. A wish flashed across his mind, as fleeting as it was, that they could stay like this forever.

Smiling into his shoulder, Serana returned the hug just as tightly, her fingers curling around the straps of his leathers and anchoring herself to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ The assault on Castle Volkihar begins.


	39. Blood Will Out (Part I)

The bleak skies above swirled with snowflakes as Kajsa stood at the bottom of the path up to Castle Volkihar, stoic and still in the midst of chaos as the Dawnguard and her own forces rushed around her. Her trusted Ebony Mail lay heavy on her shoulders while the weight of the Ebony Blade on her back and Tahrovin at her hip was negligible at best; even so, she was fast adjusting to the sensation of wearing heavy armor once again.

Feeling her heart beat in a deliberate, measured rhythm within her chest, Kajsa felt a strange sort of calm settled over her mind even as her limbs tensed. It was hardly the beginnings of battle rage — she hadn’t experienced anything near that since curing herself of the beastblood — but this deadly inner peace had much the same effect: sharpening her mind and her reflexes and steeling herself for whatever might come. She hadn’t felt it in a long time, but she welcomed the familiar sensation back as an old and trusted friend.

Kajsa almost smiled. _Gods and Daedra, the throne_ is _making me soft._

“I’m assuming you have a plan beyond whatever _this_ is?”

Kajsa turned to see Isran, standing behind her in full armor with his helmet tucked under one arm. While she had to admit that the Dawnguard’s leader was incredibly suspicious at the best of times, she still admired his stubbornness and blunt way of putting things — most of the time, at least.

“Was the infiltration of Castle Volkihar not enough for you?” she asked coolly.

Isran snorted. “You can send the vampire and Sorleigh anywhere you want. It’s the full-frontal assault on the castle that I have doubts about.”

“You’re making it sound more suicidal than it is,” Kajsa said flatly. “Do we have sufficient cover down here?”

Isran narrowed his eyes. “Yes. By the rocks and inside that tower.”

“And your archers and crossbowmen, are they ready?”

“Talk to the Bosmer about that; I put him in charge. But even if whatever comes out of there —” he jabbed a gauntleted finger at Castle Volkihar’s portcullis “— only has one path down to the shore, any number of archers won’t be able to take down all of them.”

Kajsa shrugged. “I can slow them down. Maybe even kill most of them.”

“Really.” Isran’s tone did not suggest belief. “And just how would you do that?”

“Trust me.”

The other laughed, a short, incredulous bark. “I don’t trust anyone, let alone you.”

Finverior chose that moment to approach; though he was clad in a Dawnguard cuirass, his assassin’s cowl shrouded his face. “Well, we’re just about ready,” he announced to no one leader in particular. “All that’s left to do now is to hide and pray.”

Kajsa glanced around; most of the forces had their weapons readied and were indeed taking cover, whether behind boulders or in the ruined watchtower. “Good work. You two should follow their lead.”

“And what about you, High Queen?” Finverior asked, crossing his arms. “Don’t tell me you’re risking life and limb for little old me.”

“Not if everything goes according to plan,” Kajsa said grimly. “Get into cover. _Now_.”

Taking a hint from the tone of her voice, Finverior scurried off; after a last dubious look, Isran followed him into the shadow of the tower. Deeply inhaling the cold, bitter air, Kajsa strode to the foot of the bridge crossing to Castle Volkihar.

Almost as soon as she came into view, there was movement behind the portcullis, and then a rusty creaking as it lifted. Kajsa raised one hand to the Ebony Blade, tightening her grip on it.

A single dark figure emerged from the gatehouse, but it was soon followed by another and another. As the vampires appeared, Kajsa tried to count them as best she could and measure it against the estimate Ronan had given her for their numbers. _A small clan... but no less dangerous — and from the looks of it, they’ve been expecting us._

Kajsa finally unsheathed the Ebony Blade, rolling her wrist around as she brandished it; using the sword was like regaining a part of herself. A feral smile crossed her lips as she pointed it straight ahead: a clear challenge.

The vampires responded with snarls and war cries, the death hounds with howls that carried on the icy wind. They advanced, weapons drawn, their hounds bounding ahead and slavering in anticipation of a kill.

Unmoving, Kajsa inhaled, and then unleashed the inferno building in her:

“ _STRUN — BAH QO!”_

Far above, the sky darkened with storm clouds, and the wind screamed and wailed as the drum of thunder echoed off the castle walls. No more snowflakes fell now — but bolts of lightning, striking down to the earth with deadly force.

The first to fall was one of the hounds, seizing up mid-bound and collapsing in a charred heap. The vampires, witnessing this, hissed and veered around, but with a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, two more collapsed into ashes almost instantly. Shrieks filled the air as the lightning hit its targets: death hounds, vampires, even the gargoyles encased in stone.

Not one escaped.

Kajsa closed her eyes and steadied her breathing as the beginnings of a light rain pattered against the frozen ground. Her heart was still beating out the same tattoo.

She glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye, and Kajsa turned to see some of the Dawnguard and her own forces, including Isran and Finverior, emerge from where they had taken cover. Their eyes darted from the skies to the ash blown about by the dying wind to her, and their gaze was full of awe and fear.

Isran was the first to break the silence. “Let’s get in there and flush the other bloodsuckers out,” he commanded gruffly. “We’ve still got work to do before the day is done.”

Kajsa nodded, her grip not slackening on the Ebony Blade. _And a Thalmor agent to silence._

 

The halls of Castle Volkihar were eerily silent, as still as a mausoleum, and Ronan felt a chill run down his spine as he realized the accuracy of his comparison. _But where are the dead?_

Ever since he and Serana had emerged from a crumbling corner of the cellar after navigating the ancient tunnels of the castle’s undercroft, they’d been creeping through the hallways as cautiously as possible, being exceedingly careful to not make a single sound lest it be heard. But after going through countless corridors and elegant, but bloodstained chambers, with not a single vampire to be seen, Ronan was beginning to worry.

“Perhaps the Dawnguard have lured them outside already,” Serana murmured, sensing his discomfort. “If so, all we need to focus on is finding my father.”

“And avoiding the Disciple,” Ronan pointed out.

Serana smiled, but it faded quickly. “That would be best.” Slinking forward and checking around a corner, she motioned him forward. “Come on. The entrance to the cathedral looks clear.”

“Cathedral?” Confused, Ronan inched up beside her and peered out. Next to a staircase that had long since fallen apart into chunks of stone were a pair of heavy-looking wooden doors.

“To Molag Bal,” Serana clarified, her voice quiet. “If I had to guess the one place that my father would be right now... it would be here.” She glanced over at him, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Are — are you ready for this?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Ronan said simply.

Serana averted her gaze, but nodded. “I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be.” Her tone was wry, but melancholy.

Reaching down, Ronan took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m here for you, Serana. And... I don’t know if this will make you feel any better, but... I think we can win.”

“I hope so.” Brushing his hair back from his face with her free hand, Serana kissed him. “Just watch yourself in there — and tell Nocturnal to watch over you.”

 _Do not worry, my Champion._ Nocturnal’s voice was strangely somber. _I have not brought you this far for nothing._

Ronan swallowed. _That’s not a completely comforting answer._

_Interpret my words how you like. Fate rarely takes a direct path._

Releasing Serana’s hand, Ronan stood up, his heart pounding with fear and trepidation. They walked together to the doors of the cathedral as quietly as they could, and with a last glance over their shoulders and then at each other, they pushed open the doors.

 

“Stendarr preserve us,” Isran muttered, staring down at the carnage in the dining hall of Castle Volkihar. “I’ve hunted vampires a long time, but I sure as Oblivion haven’t seen anything like _this_ before.”

“I’d add a few more gods into that prayer if I were you,” Finverior muttered, his grip tightening on his bow.

Her eyes wandering over the pools of drying blood on the floor and the still-raw chunks of mangled human flesh on the tables, Kajsa had to agree. _Vampires truly are a blight._

Her thoughts, as they usually did when thinking on vampires, unwillingly returned to Rozenna — more specifically, Ronan’s revelation — and her jaw clenched. She hadn’t spoken to Ronan about his parentage since the night he’d told her; actually, aside from giving him and Serana their assignment prior to the assault on Castle Volkihar, she hadn’t spoken to him at all.

Somehow, Kajsa doubted that she and Ronan would be having another conversation on the subject. _And it’s just as well,_ she thought bitterly.

Finverior’s voice interjected. “Think you got them all, High Queen?”

“It never hurts to be certain.” Turning, Kajsa addressed Isran. “Split your people and mine up and have them search the castle. We need to make sure that all the vampires are truly dead.”

Isran nodded curtly. “I can agree with that. What of you?”

“I need to find someone.”

“Well, you’re not going alone,” Finverior said. “Pardon my presumption, High Queen,” he added, a trifle too flowery to be completely serious, “but you know I’m right.”

Kajsa sighed. “Just come with me.” She started down the stairs, keeping the Ebony Blade drawn and at the ready. “You know what needs to be done.”

“That I do.” _Now_ Finverior’s face was straight and drawn. “Whatever it takes.”

 

The cathedral was eerily unlike the rest of the castle. Where Castle Volkihar was lit with the occasional candle, furnished and decorated as befit a noble and wealthy family, and yet, littered with flesh and stained with blood, the cathedral was dark and still, the only light coming in pale, weak streams from arrow loops on the far wall. From what Ronan could see of it, the chamber had high, vaulted ceilings supported with pillars, as well as multiple stairways leading up to higher and higher balconies — but the cracked tile floor was covered in bones: broken and bleached with age, scattered haphazardly amongst the rubble. Ahead of them, on a low dais, was an altar of some black, gleaming metal, twisted into the shape of a horned, grinning skull.

A shadowy figure ( _Harkon_ , Ronan guessed) stood before the altar, his back to them. As the two of them watched, Harkon reached towards the basin cradled in the altar, his claws skimming over the surface of the liquid within.

 _Claws?_ Ronan frowned suddenly at the realization. _Something is very wrong here..._

“Father.” Serana’s voice echoed in the cathedral. “It’s time.”

Slowly, Harkon turned to face them, and Ronan’s blood ran cold.

This — this _creature_ before them was tall and thin, the skin that stretched over bony, wiry limbs the sickly, pale pallor of dead skin. Its gleaming eyes were sunken and hollow, nose flat and flared, ears pointed, mouth wide and full of sharp fangs; its nakedness was concealed by tattered, blood-red robes and dulled gold ornaments set with rubies. As it approached them, it glided over the floor with the aid of vestigial, tattered, almost skeletal wings: a silent, nightmarish predator.

“Daughter.” The creature spoke in a deep, sonorous voice that was very familiar, and with a start, Ronan realized that the creature and Harkon were one and the same. “I see you have not given up your pet — or its pathetic friends.”

“Then you know why we’re here,” Serana stated, her voice wavering almost imperceptibly.

“Of course I do.” Harkon’s mouth curled into a sneer, baring his fangs. “You disappoint me, Serana. After all I have given you, everything I have provided for you... you have thrown it all away for _humanity_.” The last word was snarled.

“ _Provided_ for me? Are you insane?” Serana was aghast. “You’ve destroyed our family, killed other vampires — and all over some prophecy you barely understand.”

“You would be a savior,” Harkon retorted. “Our people are vanishing, hunted down by your mortal _pets_. With your sacrifice, you would raise our kind up again — and make us as feared as we once were.”

“My sacrifice would do nothing except carry out the vengeance of a mad and bitter man,” Serana shot back. “I’ve been your pawn long enough. I’m done with you, _father_.”

Unexpectedly, Harkon laughed, a low, menacing sound that rang off the cathedral’s walls. “So, you finally show your fangs.” He drifted even closer to them, and it was all Ronan could do to _not_ step back. “Your voice drips with the venom of your mother’s influence. How very alike you have become.”

“No.” Serana’s voice was sure once again. “Unlike her, I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

Face twisting in anger, Harkon turned his infernal gaze to Ronan, eyes narrowing. “As for you, _mortal_... it appears I have _you_ to thank for turning my daughter against me and enkindling the hatred in her heart.”

“Hatred born of your neglect,” Ronan said flatly.

Harkon shrugged, an anachronistic gesture for a monster. “A small price to pay for the betterment of our kind. You consider us vampires a scourge of this world... and we will prove you right.” He smiled unpleasantly. “And even if you _do_ manage to slay me, who will be next? My _beloved_ wife? My daughter?”

Ronan swallowed. “It ends at you. No one else will die but you.”

Looking back and forth from Serana to Ronan, Harkon’s nostrils flared. “So my daughter is truly lost,” he hissed. “She died the moment she accepted a mortal into her life and turned traitor to your kind.” He waved a hand dismissively, claws flashing in the gloom. “But enough talk. I will give you one chance to turn over Auriel’s Bow to me and walk away. I will not offer a second chance.”

“I’ve witnessed the choices you give,” Ronan said tightly, his grip clenching around the cool metal of the bow. “I’ll pass.”

With a snarl, Harkon spread his mutilated wings; _now_ Ronan jerked back at the sudden motion. “Then you leave me no choice but your obliteration.”

 

“Damn.” Sheathing his daggers, Finverior stood just inside the doorway with his hands propped on his hips. “Plenty creepy, but no vampires here.”

“As far as you can tell, at least.” Stepping in behind him, Kajsa scanned the chamber. Unlike the other, more functional rooms of the castle that they’d explored — a kitchen, an armory, a laboratory — this one was residential, more elegant in arrangement. Two high-backed chairs lay in front of a crackling fireplace, slightly moth-eaten tapestries hung on the stone walls, and a staircase in the far corner led up to a small, partially hidden balcony. The only item out of the ordinary ( _if anything is this place can be considered as such,_ she thought dryly) was the upright wooden rack looming beside a long table littered with objects thrown in shadow by the flickering candles resting on it.

Finverior’s eyes wandered to the rack as well, and he frowned. “As cultured as they seem for fiends of the night, these vampires are more violent,” he remarked. “They don’t exactly have the finesse for torture.”

A chill settling over her, Kajsa approached the table and examined its contents. Knives, cleaned and sharpened to precision. Vials of poison. Coils of filthy rope. Iron brands, twisted into backwards designs. And a whip, the leather stained with blood.

Her heart was not beating with a battle rush now, but with fear.

_The pain was all she felt; it overtook the sensation of her blood running down her back from her raw and open wounds, the aching of her overstretched arms and shoulders, the manacles chafing against her wrists, and the tears held back behind squeezed-shut eyelids._

_But it was not enough to shut out his voice, like the sound of the finest, thinnest dagger shearing through silk: alluring, but deadly and full of contempt._

_“Weak,” he murmured, running long, pliant fingers over her back, probing his handiwork; she tensed in revulsion, her body taut as a drawn bowstring. “You humans may think yourselves strong, but you are but things to be conquered.”_

_His touch left her and when she heard him pick up the whip again, stroking the leather-bound handle, bile crawled up her throat. Without warning, it cracked down on her once more, creating new welts across present wounds, stinging her skin and cutting the flesh._

_This time, she screamed._

Behind her, the door to the chamber slammed shut with an echoing _bang_. Whipping around in panic, she saw no one but Finverior as he rushed to the door and tried to open it, but to no avail.

A long, low chuckle rang throughout the chamber, and their eyes snapped up to the balcony. A tall figure had emerged, shrouded in a long black robe with a hood concealing its face, and it stood at the top of the stairs, lording over the scene before it. Then it removed its hood, slow and deliberate, and Kajsa felt all the air rush out of her lungs instantly as she stared, horror-stricken, at his face: a face of her nightmares.

High cheekbones, straight nose, pointed chin and ears. Long hair, smoothed back and tied at the base of his neck. Pale yellow skin, marred only by three shining scars that slashed down his cheek. Angular eyes rimmed with thick white lashes, the irises the color of gleaming gold.

The gold of a pure-blooded vampire.

Orthorien smiled coldly. “Hello, Katarina.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan, Serana, and Kajsa fight for their lives.


	40. Blood Will Out (Part II)

The world around him had turned into a blur of shadow and sparks.

Yanking one of his daggers out of one of Harkon’s raised skeletons that had been hobbling towards him, Ronan barely had time to duck before a bolt of lightning crackled over his head. He dove behind a nearby pillar, breathing hard as he scrambled to pull out his other dagger.

Harkon snarled, obviously displeased that his attack had missed; the sound echoed around the cathedral, making it hard for Ronan to determine where exactly Harkon was. _Of course,_ he thought darkly, tightening his grip on his daggers, _in this darkness, Harkon could be anywhere._

“Ronan!” Serana’s hands clamped down on his shoulders and yanked him out from cover just as a sinister red orb of magic hit the pillar.

Ronan fell to the floor, hands scraping against the stone as he broke his fall, but he looked up just in time to see Serana summoning twin ice spikes and hurling them towards the walkway above the door. Pale skin and teeth flashed in the darkness as they grazed a previously hidden Harkon.

Angry, Harkon hissed, waving his clawed hand. As Ronan watched, disbelieving, Harkon vanished into a rustling cloud of bats, fluttering away into the dark corners of the cathedral.

“How can you see him?” Ronan asked, in awe despite the situation.

“I know his tricks,” Serana said grimly. Her fingers curled, and ice appeared in her palms again. “I’ll keep him busy. Just get Auriel’s Bow —”

She was cut off by the abrupt shattering of stone as a gargoyle burst from an alcove with a roar; in a split-second, Serana had fired off more ice spikes toward it. The creature staggered back, and Ronan took the opportunity to throw one of his daggers. The tip landed in the gargoyle’s throat, piercing through its leathery skin, and it collapsed.

“Get it ready!” Serana shouted, raising the gargoyle again with a flick of her fingers and sending it shambling, dead-eyed, up the stairs. “We don’t have much time!”

 

The world around her had frozen in a nightmarish tableau. All Kajsa could do was stare at Orthorien as he descended the stairs, shocked into complete stillness at the sight of him.

“No,” she finally breathed, her voice small and hoarse — _broken._ “You’re dead. I _killed_ you.” _I put those scars on your cheek. I drove your own sword into your chest. I made sure you would never come back for me —_

“You cannot kill what is already dead, Katarina.” Orthorien threw back his head and laughed, mocking her dismay. “Poor girl, trying and failing not once, but _twice._ ”

“I’ve heard it said that three times is the charm,” Finverior put in from behind Kajsa. “I wouldn’t be so confident.”

The corner of Orthorien’s mouth quirked into a smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. “I have every reason to place faith in my Lord. After all, it was His hand that has raised me from death time and time again.” From the depths of his robes, he brandished a long, spiked mace of black metal, gleaming with a malicious green aura that sent an unnatural chill through the chamber. “Your most recent attempt on my life was no exception.”

Kajsa blanched at the sight of the horned skull that crowned the weapon. _The Mace of Molag Bal. How did he —?_

“I have always held Molag Bal’s favor,” Orthorien continued, long fingers running idly over the handle. “Unlike you, dear Katarina, I knew better than to spurn the title of Champion when it was offered to me.”

Finverior glanced questioningly at Kajsa, but she didn’t even look at him, a sickened feeling hollowing her stomach.

YOUR DEFIANCE WILL NOT BE WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE _, the cruel, deep voice hissed._ I WILL HAVE ANOTHER CHAMPION, ONE MORE FAITHFUL THAN YOU.

_“No one living knows about this house except me. Nobody can come near enough for you to call them to you.” Sensing a win, triumph surged in her. “It’s over. You’ll never have another Champion.”_

_A growl of anger._ ONE DAY, I WILL COME FOR YOU AND YOU WILL SCREAM FOR ME WITH YOUR DYING BREATH. YOU WILL REGRET YOUR DISOBEDIENCE THEN.

_A chill crawled up her spine, but she squared her shoulders. “I already have.”_

_And when she placed the Mace back on its pedestal over the blackened, bloody fountain, it felt like disease being purged from her body._

And now, the Mace was in Orthorien’s hands, its malevolence radiating even stronger than it ever had with her, and fear was killing the steady tattoo of her heart.

 _Molag Bal_ has _come for me._

Suddenly, Orthorien raised his hand and flicked his wrist, as if tossing something aside. With a shout of surprise, Finverior was lifted up and slammed into — no, _through_ — the chamber door, wood cracking and splintering. Kajsa whirled around to see Finverior’s body lying limp in the hallway outside, and she barely stifled a cry of shock.

Orthorien spoke again, jerking her attention back. “This is between you and I, Katarina.” His smile widened just enough to bare his fangs. “It always has been.”

 

Shoving his remaining dagger back in its sheath, Ronan drew Auriel’s Bow from off his back — and then he nearly dropped it in shock.

The bow was _glowing_ , shining bright in the dimness of the cathedral with some kind of luminescence from within. The metal tingled in his palms, some kind of strange heat pulsing through it — _like pure light,_ he realized. _It feels like — like sunlight._

Half in a daze, Ronan reached for an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to the bow. Suddenly, the arrow lit up as well, as brilliant as any flame, and he averted his eyes. When he turned back, he saw that, much to his astonishment, the fletching and shaft were untouched — but the arrowhead gleamed like gold.

A fierce snarl came from behind him, and Ronan whipped around as Harkon emerged from the shadows, claws extended and teeth bared. Harkon slashed at him, and he stumbled back, trying to aim and avoid the vicious attack at the same time.

Desperate, Ronan released the arrow.

It buried itself in Harkon’s side, between his ribs — and it exploded in a blazing burst of light, making Harkon roar in pain.

Thrown back by the force of the blast, Ronan’s back hit the stone floor and his eyes danced with spiraling light spots. Wincing, he tried to struggle to his feet regardless, still keeping a firm grip on the bow.

Cold air ghosted over his skin as Serana sent a magical wave of ice and snow spiraling through the cathedral and towards her father, but Harkon vanished into the shadows once again. Her eyes never wavering, she reached a hand down to him, and Ronan took it, hauling himself up.

“Do you think —?” he managed.

“Not yet,” she murmured. “But I think that helped.”

For the first time since the battle began, Ronan felt cautiously optimistic about the outcome.

 

Tamping down her fear as best she could, Kajsa stalked towards Orthorien, the tip of the Ebony Blade trained on his torso with a quick roll of her wrist.

He raised the Mace, catching the thin blade on one of the spikes. “So, you allied yourself with other Princes. Mephala... and Boethiah, too,” Orthorien mused, his gaze passing from the Blade to her armor. “You choose more dangerous allies than I.”

Kajsa didn’t answer and didn’t move.

“Why so silent and grim, my dear?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, like that of a lover. “Are you still the same girl I once enjoyed? If I were to have you again, would I still find my lovely scars on your skin?”

Kajsa thrust out her sword a little further, and the tip rested on his throat. “You will _never_ lay a hand on me again,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“And yet, you hesitate,” Orthorien continued in that same voice, as if he wasn’t facing death. “Underneath your rage, you know that you need me —”

“Do you think I would be here if I didn’t already know what the Dominion’s plot was?”

“— as much as I need you.” He smiled, an almost genteel gesture, and a shudder ran through her. “I have stayed with you longer than any other friend or lover you have ever had, Katarina. It will do you no good to kill me.”

With a flick of the Ebony Blade, a thin red line appeared on Orthorien’s throat. As he brought a hand up to his wound, his handsome features irritated, Kajsa drew her sword back and drove it through his stomach with all the desperate force she could muster.

Suddenly, Kajsa felt herself being thrown back, and she lost her grip on the Blade. Her body hit the wall, and her skull cracked hard against the stone as all the breath was forced from her lungs.

“For shame, Katarina. I know you are capable of better than that.” Orthorien drew out the sword from the wound in his stomach, blood dripping from the blade. “It will take more than _that_ feeble attempt to kill a Champion of Molag Bal.”

 

Turning his gaze back to Auriel’s Bow after he finished fitting the arrow to it, Ronan brought the bow up, ready to aim and fire at a moment’s notice. Scanning his surroundings from the center of the cathedral’s floor, he could discern nothing in the shadows: not a single movement, not a single sound.

_Where in Oblivion is Harkon?_

He glanced behind him, suddenly paranoid. Serana, magic ablaze in her palms, was looking around as well. From the worried and suspicious look on her face, Ronan could tell that they were both wondering the same thing.

All of a sudden, Harkon’s voice boomed out in the silence. “You cannot stop me.”

Both of them whirled around to see Harkon hovering beside the altar, tattered wings spread to their full span and a vicious snarl curling his mouth. Like his daughter, orbs of magic blazed from their prison inside his curled claws, but this was like no other magic Ronan had ever seen before: shadowy fire, burning cold like the grave.

“The Tyranny of the Sun will be fulfilled, with or without your consent,” Harkon growled. “For your disobedience, _daughter_... I will darken the skies with your blood!”

Before Ronan could loose his arrow, Harkon had raised both of his hands above his head, and the two flames leapt towards each other, becoming one. Pure energy exploded from the source and rushed through the cathedral, and both Ronan and Serana were knocked off their feet as the pillars shook and the floor buckled with the shock wave.

Breathing hard, Ronan hauled himself up, grabbing for Auriel’s Bow where it had fallen beside him. He lifted his eyes just in time to see both Harkon and the altar enclosed in a swirling sphere of dark magic, tendrils of shadow creeping from its core.

“Father, please!” Serana cried, heedless of the trickle of blood running down from her hairline. “You don’t have to do this! The prophecy — it’s a lie!”

Harkon laughed then, and the sound ran chills down Ronan’s spine. He heard a gasp from beside him, and he turned to see Serana staring at her father, her horror-stricken face paler than he’d ever seen it before.

“Father — oh, father, _no_ —” Her voice was no higher than a whisper. “What have you done?”

 _OH, MY DAUGHTER... YOUR FATHER IS LONG GONE._ The deep, cruel voice coming from Harkon’s body echoed through the cathedral and shook Ronan’s bones with its force and malevolence. _THERE IS ONLY ONE SOUL IN THIS VESSEL, AND IT IS MINE._

 

The wall behind her back shook violently, knocking Kajsa to her hands and knees. Her body collapsed as she hit the floor, and she tried not to cry out at the force of her armor bruising her limbs and torso with the impact.

Orthorien was unperturbed by the sudden tremor; on the contrary, his eyes seemed to glow with anticipation. “My Lord walks on Tamriel,” he breathed, “and His vessel will be the one to drape the shroud over the skies.”

“You — you will _never_ see that happen.” Kajsa struggled to haul herself to her feet, watching her opponent warily. _I will kill you... the Dawnguard will kill your vessel... and then the Dominion will have nothing left._

Much to her surprise, Orthorien did not advance. “Perhaps. But you misunderstand my intentions, Katarina.” Crouching slowly, he laid both the Ebony Blade and the Mace of Molag Bal on the floor, then straightened up.

Kajsa made to lunge for the Blade, but in an instant, he was kneeling before her, and his viselike grip clamped around her neck, holding her back. She flailed with her hands — trying to seize Tahrovin, or to pry his hands off her, or to just get him away — but Orthorien seized both of her wrists and pinned them to the floor; Kajsa barely suppressed a scream of pain as one of her shoulders was wrenched out of its socket.

Orthorien laughed. “I never tire of your spirit, my dear. Always fighting on, even to the last. Trying to reach your goal, and always falling short.”

Kajsa opened her mouth, but no words came out and her breath only got shallower and shallower the tighter he choked her.

Tilting his head to the side, Orthorien gazed at her. “You are my most perfect creation — did you know that?” he murmured. “My most entertaining plaything: my greatest success... _and_ my most grievous failure.”

Kajsa squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep tears of panic from falling. _This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening._

His grip shifted, jerking up her chin. “ _Look at me._ ”

She instinctively opened her eyes, and a wave of hatred and shame was not far behind.

Orthorien smiled, almost proudly. “You love to play at independence, but... you are still so very obedient, Katarina. So perfectly broken to my will.”

Kajsa winced as his fingers slid around her jaw, cradling it even as he forced the life from her. _I — I have — have to do something —_ anything —

“I’m sure you’re well aware that there’s a substantial price on your head in the Dominion... but coin is such a poor motivation for tracking one such as you down, and my supposed _superiors_ hold no power over me.” Orthorien leaned closer, their faces no more than a hair’s breadth apart, and his next words was no more than a whisper. “I think I’ll just keep you for myself.”

His words struck her like a blade in the back, filling her with fear and horror. But deep inside her, Kajsa could feel the fury building within her like dragonflame, burning with eagerness for blood and death and revenge, to tear down mountains and conquer all that opposed her. Her blood boiled in her veins with the wrath of a _dovah._

 _No,_ she thought, words failing her as her head got lighter and lighter. _I will_ not _die like this._

_I would die before he had me again._

With her last breath, Kajsa gasped a single word:

“ _FUS!”_

 

The darkness was spreading.

It radiated from the sphere surrounding Harkon — _or rather, what once had been Harkon_ , Ronan remembered, chilled — pulsing out into the air and weaving around the pillars of the cathedral: shadow shot through with a sinister, fiery red. Though the sphere obstructed most of it, Ronan could hear not-Harkon chanting words in a guttural tongue, his voice rising and falling with the fervor of a zealot.

Suddenly, Serana crumpled to her knees with a cry, and Ronan whirled around in time to see her raise one shaking hand from her stomach. Blood dripped down her palm.

“My blood — that spell —” Her voice was weak. “He — Molag Bal — He’s taking it from me — the Tyranny —” She doubled over, gasping as the dark stain on her stomach spread. “He can still complete —”

Horrified, Ronan instantly knelt and tried to help staunch the bleeding.

“No!” Serana pushed him away. “I — you — you know what to do — the Bow —” She coughed, and blood ran down her chin. “ _Do it!_ ”

Ronan didn’t need to be told twice. Rising with Auriel’s Bow gripped in his hand, he grabbed for an arrow and fitted it to the bow with fumbling hands, his heart beating madly as the arrowhead glowed bright gold in the gloom. Squinting through the shadow, he glimpsed not-Harkon’s pale form and aimed.

 _Nocturnal, guide my hand_ , he prayed. _If ever You were on my side... help me now._

With that, he loosed the arrow.

Almost immediately, the sphere of dark magic around not-Harkon exploded once more — but this time, into pure _light_ , flooding through the cathedral and dispelling the shadows. Ronan instinctively covered his eyes with his arm, but the radiance still danced over his vision, as if he’d gazed directly into the sun.

The creature that had once been Harkon let out a bone-chilling shriek of rage and pain. As Ronan slowly lowered his arm, he saw not-Harkon’s form engulfed in white-hot flames, its flesh dissolving into ashes in the blink of an eye. Then as the fire vanished, it fell into a pile of charred, blackened bones and dust, and the cathedral was still once again.

Ronan let out a pent-up breath, scarcely believing what had just happened. _It’s — it’s over. We did it. The prophecy will never be fulfilled._

“Serana!” He turned around, ecstatic — and then his heart stopped in his chest.

 

Orthorien’s eyes widened in shock the instant before the force of the Shout hit his body. He was flung across the chamber, back against the stairs, bones cracking as he landed hard.

Breathing hard, Kajsa struggled to her feet, ignoring her dislocated shoulder and the constriction of her throat. Seeing her handiwork, Kajsa stalked forward with a feral grin on her face, taking up the Ebony Blade as she moved in.

 _Only one Word of Power, the simplest of them all... and even with all_ his _power, he is no match for the power_ I _hold._

Orthorien lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs: weak, bleeding, limbs twisted. He coughed violently and a trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “Katarina —” he gasped.

This time, she gave him no time to speak. Angling the Ebony Blade towards his heart, Kajsa drove it down into his chest with all the strength she possessed.

“ _I am not Katarina_ ,” she hissed, twisting the blade viciously.

And finally, the light in his golden eyes went out for good.

 

Serana lay limp and sprawled on the floor, hands and mouth and stomach coated in dried blood. Though she was no longer actively bleeding, her skin was still far paler than normal and she made no move to get up.

“Ronan —” she managed, her voice hoarse.

“Just stay still.” Ronan knelt beside her, reaching into his satchel for a healing potion.

“No — no, that won’t help —” Her eyelids fluttered, then snapped open, as if she was trying to ward off sleep. “Blood — I need blood —”

Without a second thought, Ronan dropped Auriel’s Bow and drew one of his daggers. Swiftly slicing across his palm, he offered his bleeding hand to her. “Drink.”

Her face looked pained. “Ronan, I —”

“Serana, you’re seriously hurt. You need this. _Please_ ,” he begged. “Drink from me.”

With some hesitation, Serana slowly tried to raise herself up. Catching her with his free arm, being careful not to cut her accidentally, Ronan cradled her upper body and brought his wounded hand closer to her mouth.

Serana grabbed it, her eyes lighting up with hunger. Her lips pressed to his palm for a moment in a sort of silent promise before she began lapping up his blood.

Outside the cathedral, the shouts and cheers of the living echoed through the sealed doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the final chapter of _Corruption of Blood:_ Ronan makes a choice about his future.


	41. A New Dawn

Ronan.

_Stirred from rest by the familiar voice, he opened his eyes — and was startled to find himself surrounded in darkness: deep and impenetrable, but somehow calm and soothing._

Am I dead? _he asked fearfully._

 _Somewhere in the void, Nocturnal laughed._ You sleep like one who is so, my Champion, but you are merely dreaming.

 _Ronan breathed a brief sigh of relief, but was immediately on alert again._ Am I —?

— in the Evergloam? No, though we are close. _Though he couldn’t see Nocturnal, Her voice seemed to hover by his ear, clear and easily heard._ Vaermina allowed me to tread into the outskirts of her realm so I could speak to you.

 _Ronan frowned._ Vaermina?

The cooperation between my fellow Princes has been... startlingly good, of late. _Nocturnal’s tone turned dry._ You have Molag Bal and the Tyranny of the Sun to thank for that.

_Ronan blinked, shocked._

No need for your thanks; our desire to stop our brother was based in self-interest and self-preservation, _Nocturnal continued as if nothing had happened._ If Molag Bal had succeeded in bringing all of Tamriel under his control, we would have been the next to fall, in all likelihood.

 _Ronan thought about this._ So... your connection to me —?

We agreed that we needed a mortal liaison here in order to stop Molag Bal — a mortal that would have a chance of reaching both the Volkihar Clan and the Dawnguard. _She paused._ I decided that it would be a mortal that needed a second chance. _Redemption,_ if you will.

 _A lump rose in Ronan’s throat._ Redemption? _he echoed._ For me — or my father?

 _He could almost hear Nocturnal shrugging._ Can it not be both?

 _Ronan nodded, numb._ My thanks, _he managed._ I _—_ I owe You a lot.

More than you know, _Nocturnal said, sounding amused._ But now is not the time for paying debts. Now is the time for a new path — one free of my touch. _She seemed to turn away._

Wait. _Ronan hesitated, rethinking asking his question, but then pressed on._ Did Mercer... did my father ever love my mother?

 _Nocturnal considered it. Then:_ I believe he did. Poor misguided man, he truly did. _She paused, as if gauging her next words._ He tried so hard to save her. Refused to raise his blade to her until she told him there was no other way. If I had a sense of human emotions... I would say it was tragic.

_Ronan was silent and still, too choked up to speak — but a weight had been lifted._

Farewell for the present, my Champion. Eyes open. Walk with the shadows.

_And with that, the darkness faded away._

 

“Rise and shine, Sir Sunshine. You’ve rested that pretty ass long enough.”

Ronan cracked one eye open, squinting at the light; however dim it actually was, the light still hurt his eyes. “Finverior?” he muttered in disbelief.

“That’s my name; don’t wear it out.”

Groaning, Ronan opened both his eyes and scanned his surroundings as best he could. He was lying in a bed, and a comfortable one at that, with soft pillows underneath his head and warm blankets and fur throws draped over him. Walls of plaster and stone surrounded the small chamber; not much light came through the smoky glass of the windows, but there were candles lit on the nightstand and in the chandelier above, and a fire was roaring in the hearth.

Ronan frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where are we?”

“Near Solitude.” A bandage wrapped around his head and a purpling bruise over one eye, Finverior sprawled in a chair by his bedside. “We’re in the old Thalmor Embassy. The High Queen had us track back here after the battle so our forces could recover a little, but Lady Vamp stayed at the castle with those two vampire informants we picked up.”

Ronan peered at him. “What happened to you?”

“Got thrown through a door,” Finverior replied flippantly. “Feel like I got trampled by a herd of mammoths, but between my healing and Florentius’, I think I’ll be okay.”

Ronan laughed wearily, but then he sobered. “Is anyone —?”

“Not that I know of. Some injuries here and there, but no casualties.” Finverior grinned. “We got pretty damn lucky.”

 _That’s one way to put it..._ “And Serana?” he asked anxiously. “How’s she?”

“Lady Vamp’s great. You? Not so much.” Finverior swung his feet up on the bed. “In case you don’t remember, you’ve been slightly bedridden for the past day or two. Quite a bit of blood loss.”

“Right,” Ronan said slowly, remembering what had happened in the cathedral. “The... uh, fight against Harkon was difficult. Lots of little wounds,” he lied. _I doubt the Dawnguard would take kindly to knowing Serana fed off me._

_Speaking of which... why is Serana still at Castle Volkihar? I don’t blame her for wanting to remain at a distance from the Dawnguard, but — I would have thought she’d be worried about me._

Finverior didn’t look like he bought it, but he nodded anyway. “So: are you good?”

“Fair enough.” Admittedly, Ronan felt as though he could have slept more, but that was beside the point. “Why do you ask?”

The other grinned. “Isran’s outside, waiting to talk to you. Figured you’d want to get up your strength for _that_ conversation.” He paused. “And did I mention that the High Queen wants us to get to Windhelm as soon as possible?”

 

“Where have you been?” His words were weary, but his gaze was as hard as steel.

“Assisting the Dawnguard.” Kajsa closed the door to their chambers behind her without breaking eye contact with her husband. _At least he had the courtesy to not ask the moment I walked into the Palace of the Kings..._

After two days of hard riding, she’d finally returned to Windhelm early in the evening. Ulfric had greeted her warmly enough, but the questioning, exasperated look in his eyes was a signal that he was not done with the conversation — even if she was. But even with the weight of her armor and weapons off her, and Isran’s assurances that the Dawnguard had everything under control, Kajsa was exhausted in more ways than one from the battle at Castle Volkihar.

Ulfric sighed, crossing his arms. “I agreed to send an additional regiment to Fort Dawnguard — _not_ that you could join them.”

Kajsa clenched her jaw. “With Operation Priesthood —”

“Did you not debrief Finverior on the situation?” _Now_ irritation was starting to creep into his tone. “You _were_ the one who stationed him with the Dawnguard.”

“There was no time,” Kajsa said curtly, making to brush past him. “I had to go.”

Ulfric seized her arm before she could pass him. “I have told you before, you do not _have_ to do such a thing,” he stated, his voice low and furious. “You could have left the Thalmor agent for Finverior or Sorleigh and not endangered yourself.”

Golden eyes flashed in her mind, and Kajsa swallowed hard. “You don’t understand,” she managed. “The agent —”

“You are right; I do _not_ understand,” Ulfric growled. “You are —”

“Ulfric, the Thalmor agent —” she tried again desperately.

“I thought we agreed that this would not happen again!” Ulfric shouted. “I do not want —”

“It was _him!_ ”

The cry ripped from her lips before she could stop herself, and it echoed in the still. Suddenly ashamed, Kajsa averted her eyes from his as tears threatened. She was barely aware of Ulfric’s grip on her arm loosening as his hand fell away.

“How?” His voice was quiet, disbelieving. “You killed him.”

“Vampire.” The word clawed at her throat and came out in a sob. “And the damned _Daedra_ —”

Without a word, Ulfric put an arm around her and guided her to the edge of the bed. She sank down onto it, and he took a seat beside her, pulling her shaking body nearer to him. Hanging onto him for all she was worth and burying her face in his chest, Kajsa finally allowed the tears blurring her vision to fall.

After what seemed like an eternity, Ulfric spoke, more gently than he had before. “You did not know.” His hands kneaded her shoulders, trying in vain to work out the tension. “None of us could have known.”

“I thought —” Her voice choked and she tried again. “I thought I was free —” _The way I responded to him... I was as much his slave as I was all those years ago._

“Is he dead?”

Kajsa nodded, a hard lump rising in her throat. The last time she’d seen Orthorien, his headless, limbless body had been burning in the fireplace of that chamber in Castle Volkihar. Cleaning his blood off the Ebony Blade, she’d watched as his remains turned to ash, her heart like a stone lodged in her chest.

 _But I should have gotten it right the first time. The_ very _first time._

“Good.” Ulfric’s embrace tightened: slight, but protective. “Good.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments. The fire in the hearth crackled with warmth, and Kajsa tilted her head to the side, allowing her tears to dry on her face. His hands leaving her now-slackened shoulders, Ulfric threaded his fingers through her hair; she closed her eyes and allowed his touch to calm her.

The still was abruptly broken by a knock on the door.

Ulfric sighed at the interruption, but raised his voice. “What?”

“Only myself, High King,” Yusef said through the door. “Finverior has returned, and Ronan Sorleigh is with him.”

Kajsa exhaled heavily. _As I much as I would love to not entertain visitors right now... I do need to address Ronan._ “Tell them I’ll be right down, Yusef,” she called, rising from the bed.

Ulfric rose with her, his hands sliding to cup her jaw as he kissed her forehead. “Do not be too long. You need to rest.” It was not a suggestion, but neither was it a command.

Kajsa smiled, but it was tired and wane. “I know.” _We both do._

 

“So, what did Isran have to say?” Finverior leaned back on the table holding the map of Skyrim. “I mean, you’re still in one piece, so it can’t have been _too_ bad.”

Ronan glanced over at him dubiously. “You didn’t eavesdrop?”

Finverior snorted. “Eavesdrop on _Isran_? No thanks. What if he caught me? I’m far too handsome to die over _that_.”

Making to seat himself in a nearby chair and then thinking better of it — after two days of riding, he was fairly sure that he was more saddle-sore than he’d ever been in his life — Ronan chuckled. “I can’t comment on that. But to answer your question...” He paused, not quite sure of how to proceed. “He said that I could join the Dawnguard.”

Finverior’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline. “Wow,” was all he said. “That’s... quite the change of heart.”

Ronan smiled wryly. “You’re telling me. Of course,” he added, “he qualified that with ‘because you’ve managed to prove yourself’ and ‘only join if you feel the need to.’”

Finverior laughed. “ _That_ sounds more like the Isran we know and love.” He cocked his head to one side. “Think you’ll join up?”

Ronan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have to keep it in mind, anyway. I need to make a decision about where to go.” _And who I want to be around._

At the very least, if he did join the Dawnguard, he wouldn’t have what he’d unwittingly done to Ranmir on his conscience. Before he and Finverior left the old Embassy, Ronan caught up to Agmaer and asked him to pass along twenty septims to Ranmir. Ronan didn’t give Agmaer an explanation for the money, but he remembered the exact amount Nocturnal had made him steal from Ranmir because he’d used it all to hire a carriage from Windhelm to take him to Riften.

 _To Riften… and from there, to the Dawnguard_ , he’d realized halfway through his and Finverior’s ride to Windhelm. _It was... my_ fate _to go there. A fate Nocturnal arranged for me._

(There was no response to his thoughts. Ronan was relieved, but after so long with Nocturnal in his head, his thoughts felt a little emptier.)

“Well, where _can_ you go?” Finverior was asking. “Seeing as you can’t really venture outside of Skyrim without being nabbed by the Dominion, your options are limited.”

“But I’m not sure if I want to join the Dawnguard, either,” Ronan said. “Isran might have extended an offer, but I don’t know if I want to answer to him —”

“And there’s the fact that your lady friend is a vampire,” Finverior added helpfully.

Ronan sighed. “Yes, that’s most of it,” he confessed. _Now that this whole nightmare is over... I’ve found that I don’t want to leave her side._

“So, what are you going to do?” Finverior asked. “Journey to Castle Volkihar, sweep her up in your arms and profess your undying love, and then not leave the bedroom for a week?”

Ronan gave him an exasperated look.

“What?” Finverior protested. “I’m a romantic at heart.”

The door into the war room opened, and both of them straightened up as Kajsa entered, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle at her side. She looked far wearier than when Ronan had seen her last, and even though he couldn’t tell for sure, her dark eyes appeared slightly bloodshot.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, glancing back and forth between them. “Finverior, would you mind leaving us for a few moments? I’ll speak to you after Ronan.”

Finverior looked surprised ( _probably at her civility,_ Ronan thought dryly), but he nodded. “You got it, High Queen.” He grinned at Ronan. “See you around, Sir Sunshine _—_ and good luck.” And with that, he vanished through the hallway to the throne room.

Kajsa turned to him, silently regarding him for a moment. Then: “Thank you.”

Ronan blinked. “For what?”

“If you hadn’t stumbled into Forelhost when you did... I don’t think we could have ever put an end to Operation Priesthood.” Her free hand idly traced the edge of the map. “Perhaps we would have discovered the details, one way or another, but we might not have been in time to stop the Dominion and the vampires.”

Ronan swallowed, but nodded. “Thank you,” he said, not sure what else to say.

Kajsa sighed. “And... I owe you an apology.”

Ronan shook his head, sensing where she was going with this. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “Save for the fact that Mercer was my father, you didn’t know anything about me.”

“But now I do — and I also know that we shared a mother.” Kajsa’s voice was quiet and pained. “And... I’ve had enough of losing my family.”

It took a moment for her words to register, but once they did, Ronan swallowed hard as an emotion that he could not put a name to flooded through him. “I — I’d be honored to call you my sister,” he managed.

Despite her melancholy, Kajsa smiled slightly. “And I you.” She held out the cloth-wrapped bundle to him. “This is for you... brother.”

Ronan returned the smile, blinking back his tears as he took it. Turning it over in his hands, he glanced at her questioningly. “What is it?”

“Something that the Guild... _salvaged_ from Mercer’s house. By all rights, it belongs to you.” Kajsa folded her hands expectantly. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Unwrapping the fine, but slightly dusty cloth, Ronan’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the beautiful sword within. The hilt was polished to a gold sheen, and the blade forged of refined malachite, but it was an unusual blue color, clear as ice.

“It’s called Chillrend,” Kajsa said. “I don’t know much about it or its origins, but a sword like that needs to do more than sit in a display case.”

“Agreed.” Ronan balanced it in his palms; it was remarkably light. “This is a fine gift. Thank you.”

“There’s more — in a sense. When I had Chillrend delivered from the Guild vaults, this was with it.” She handed him a folded, sealed letter. “It’s addressed to you.”

Frowning, Ronan put Chillrend down on the table to take the letter. Breaking the seal and unfolding it, he read it carefully:

> _Ronan,_
> 
> _You’ve been the subject of discussion for quite some time down in the Flagon, as I’m sure you know. Quite a few people weren’t keen to let you join the Guild, but most others have come around to the idea with a bit of persuading. Mercer’s son or not, you’re still a good thief from what I’ve heard, and we’d be — for lack of a better word — lucky to have you in the Guild_ and _in the Trinity. Besides, everyone deserves a little redemption, right?_
> 
> _I’m not sure if you still want anything to do with us — and I can’t fault you for that; I know some of us treated you like shit — but if I don’t see you in the Flagon any time soon, there’s no hard feelings. With or without us, you’ll go far._
> 
> _Shadows preserve you,_
> 
> _Brynjolf_
> 
> _PS. For the love of Nocturnal, use the sword. Mercer kept the thing in a damn display case, and that’s a shame in a class by itself._

“What is it?” Kajsa asked.

Ronan glanced up, suddenly aware of the confusion apparent on his face. “Brynjolf said that... if I wanted, I could join the Guild,” he said hesitantly.

“And do you want to?”

Ronan chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s — there’s a lot for me to think about right now.” He paused. “And I’m not sure if I really want to go back.”

Kajsa smiled ruefully. “Then you go forward.”

Ronan smiled despite himself. “True enough.” He looked down at the letter one last time, and then folded it up. _Besides... I’ve already redeemed myself._

 

From her seat in front of the fireplace, Valerica cast her eyes around Harkon’s old chambers with more than a little distaste. “Surely the rest of the castle is not in this state.”

“It’s one of the better-preserved wings, unfortunately,” Serana said. “There’s a lot of work to be done: the cellar, the courtyard, the ruined towers...” She trailed off. “The castle hasn’t weathered the centuries very well.”

“Not everything lasts forever, dear.” Valerica sipped from her goblet. “We will rebuild what we can, of course. I would hate to see my home turn into even more of a ruin than it already is.”

 _Home._ Serana propped up her elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned her head on her hand, gazing into the fire. _I helped put an end to my father, I rescued my mother... and after all that I’ve been through, I’ve finally come home._

_If only Ronan were here._

She’d wished she could have stayed with him while he recovered — he’d lost a fair bit of blood due to her, and she felt guilty about that — but something told her that the Dawnguard wouldn’t take kindly to seeing her around. They’d eliminated the threat, and the alliance (if one could even call it that) between them and her was at an end.

Besides, there was something else she needed to do.

There were still some ingredients from her mother’s spell in the tower laboratory, and it didn’t take much effort to open the portal into the Soul Cairn again. It was much stranger and far more terrifying to set foot into that accursed place without Ronan, but she’d managed to trace her journey back to the old mausoleum where Valerica waited for her.

When Serana had left the Soul Cairn, her mother was at her side.

“You seem pensive,” Valerica commented, her voice bringing Serana out of her thoughts.

Serana sighed. “There’s just... a bit on my mind. That’s all.”

Valerica arched an eyebrow. “Is this about your mortal friend?”

“Yes. Most of it.”

Valerica’s gaze softened a little. “You love him, do you not?”

Serana nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “Quite a lot.”

“There was something of that there when I saw you two together in the Soul Cairn.” Valerica took another sip from her goblet. “I did not want to see it, but... there it was.”

Serana swallowed, looking down at her hands.

“I am not chastising you, dear. We all love, for better or for worse.” Valerica reached over and took her hand, drawing Serana’s attention back up. “I am not sure how long your relationship with him will last, but I would like for you to be happy while it does. Gods know our lives need some happiness.”

Serana smiled. “Yes,” she said finally. “I think we deserve it.”

“Lady Valerica! Lady Serana!”

Both of their heads turned as Ronthil appeared at the doorway, his shoulders heaving with the exertion of running. Though Serana had always known him to be easily flustered, he looked positively frantic now.

“What is it, Ronthil?” Valerica asked, remaining calm.

“A boat,” Ronthil gasped. “Approaching the island.”

Serana’s heart leapt in her chest. _Could it be —?_

Instantly rising from her seat, she dashed past Ronthil and down the corridor, taking the stairs down two steps at a time. She ran through the great hall, and then up the spiraling staircase to the double doors of the castle’s entrance.

Yanking one of the doors open, Serana slipped outside, breaking into a full-on sprint down the bridge. The evening fog surrounded her and shrouded the path in a smoky haze, but she ignored it and pressed on down to the ramshackle dock on the rocky shore.

Ronan was just tying up his rowboat, wrapped in his usual fur traveling cloak with Auriel’s Bow on his back and a sword with a strangely shimmering blue blade at his hip. He looked up as he approached, and a broad smile spread across his face.

A giddy relief coursed through her, and Serana found herself throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. He embraced her in return, holding her like he would never let go.

“You came back,” she said wonderingly. “I was worried —”

“I had to take care of some things, same as you.” His hand caressed her cheek, and Ronan’s eyes seemed to shine. “But I’m here now, and I’m here to stay. If you’ll let me,” he added, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed.

Serana pretended to consider it for a moment. “I will allow it,” she said finally, laughing as she kissed him.

In that moment, Ronan could not have looked happier.

(And truth be told, Serana felt much the same.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another _Skyrim_ fic successfully re-posted! Thank you to all you (re)readers, reviewers, kudos-leavers, and lurkers who have gone on yet another incredible journey with me.
> 
> As always, feel free to stop by **[my Tumblr](http://brunetteauthorette99.tumblr.com/)** for more fanfiction and rambling about my OCs — there's only two more fics left to repost, including another one in the _Heroine Without Honor_ series that features Sithia and Finverior, and that'll be the first place you'll hear about it when I get around to reposting it. Also, here's **[a fanmix for Ronan Sorleigh](https://8tracks.com/turwaithi3l/fortunate-son)** that I made forever ago and didn't get around to posting on 8tracks until now.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> _**BrunetteAuthorette99**_


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